THE  FORTUNES  OF  THE  LANDRAYS 


OF  CALIF.   LIBRARY,   LOS  ANGELES 


M-l.CONt 


BRftCKf^- 


Her  beauty  was  of  the  Southern  type. 


THE  FORTUNES  OF 
THE  LANDRAYS 


By  VAUGHAN  KESTER 

Author  of 
THI  PRODIGAL  JUDGE,  THE  JUST  AMD  THE  UNJUST,  ETC. 


Illustrated  by 
11.  LEONE  BRACKER 


SYNDICATE   PUBLISHING   COMPANY 

NEW    YORK  LONDON 


COFTUOHT  1905 

THE  BoBus-MsawLi.  COMPAM* 


RETRINTKD  SKPT«MBEH,  19 IS 


XJ  my  Grandmother 
Eliza  U.  Waikitu 


2130657 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  THE  LANDRAYS 


CHAPTER  ONE 

i 

THE  boy  on  the  box  was  surfeited  with  travel.  Glancing  back 
over  the  swaying  top  of  the  coach,  he  had  seen  miles  upon 
miles  of  hot  dusty  road,  between  banked-up  masses  of  for- 
ests or  cultivated  fields,  dwindle  to  a  narrow  thread  of  yellow.  Day 
after  day  there  had  been  the  same  tiresome  repetition  of  noisy  towns- 
and  sleepy  cross-road  villages,  each  one  very  like  the  other  and  all  hav- 
ing a  widely  different  appearance  from  that  which  he  conceived  Ben- 
son would  present. 

The  wonderful  life  of  the  road,  varied  and  picturesque,  no  longer 
claimed  his  attention.  The  black  dot  a  mile  distant  was  unnoticed. 
It  was  a  long  line  of  freight  wagons  north-bound  to  some  lake  port, 
laden  with  pork,  flour  and  hides.  Presently,  these  wagons  would  be 
passed  by  a  party  of  mounted  traders,  travelling  south  to  Baltimore 
for  supplies,  with  their  sacks  of  Spanish  dollars  loaded  upon  pack 
horses.  Next  they  would  journey  for  a  little  space  with  a  cattle  dealer 
and  his  men,  who  were  taking  a  drove  of  Marino  sheep  across  the 
state  to  Indiana.  But  the  boy's  curiosity  had  been  more  than  satisfied; 
he  had  only  to  close  his  eyes  to  see  again  the  vivid  panorama  of  the 
road  in  the  blaze  of  that  hot  June  sun. 

They  had  changed  drivers  so  many  times  he  had  lost  all  count  of 
them;  and  with  the  changing  drivers  a  wearisome  succession  of  pas- 
sengers had  come  and  gone;  but  to-day  he  and  his  father  rode  alone 
upon  the  box.  That  morning,  the  latter  had  told  him  they  would  reach 
Benson  by  noon,  yet  strangely  enough  his  interest  flagged;  the  miles 
seemed  endless  —  interminable.  He  was  sore  and  stiff;  his  little  legs 
ached  from  their  cramped  position,  and  at  last  utterly  weary  he  fell 
into  a  troubled  sleep,  his  head  resting  on  his  father's  arm,  and  his 
small  hands,  moist  and  warm,  clasped  idly  in  his  lap. 

His  father,  grim,  motionless,  and  predisposed  to  silence,  gave  brief 
replies  to  such  questions  as  Mr.  Bartlett,  the  driver,  saw  fit  to  ask;  — 
for  Mr.  Bartlett  was  frankly  curious.  As  he  said  himself,  he  always 


4  THE  LANDRAYS 

liked  to  know  who  his  passengers  were,  where  they  came  from,  where 
they  were  going,  and  if  possible  their  business. 

Now  as  they  began  the  long  descent  of  Landray's  Hill,  south  of 
Benson,  Mr.  Bartlett  pushed  forward  his  brake  handle  and  said, 
"That's  Benson  ahead  of  us,  off  yonder  where  you  see  the  church 
spires;  would  you  'a  knowed  it,  do  you  think  ?" 

Instantly  the  man  at  his  side  who  had  been  sitting  low  in  his  seat, 
took  a  more  erect  position,  while  a  sudden  light  kindled  in  his  dull 
eyes. 

"Known  it?"  after  a  moment's  survey  of  the  scene  before  him. 
"Well,  I  guess  not."  There  was  palpable  regret  in  his  tone,  just 
touched  by  some  hidden  emotion;  a  passing  shade  of  feeling  not  an- 
ticipated, that  moved  him. 

"I  allowed  you  wouldn't.  Twenty  years  makes  a  heap  of  differ- 
ence, don't  it  ?  Gives  you  a  turn  ? "  interestedly.  • 

"Well,  sort  of,"  with  gentle  sadness. 

"I  know  how  you  feel.  I  been  that  way  myself,"  said  the  driver. 
Mr.  Bartlett  was  short  and  stocky,  with  ruddy  cheeks  and  great  red 
hands.  As  one  who  mingled  muclr  with  the  world,  he  prided- himself 
on  his  social  adaptability. 

The  stranger  bestowed  upon  him  a  glance  of  frank  displeasure. 
He  felt  vaguely  that  the  other's  sentiment  was  distasteful  to  him.  It 
smacked  of  such  fat  complacency.  At  last  he  said,  "I'd  about  made  up 
my  mind  that  Iwa'n't  to  see  it  again."  here  a  violent  fit  of  coughing  in- 
terrupted him.  When  it  subsided,  Mr.  Bartlett  remarked  sympatheti- 
cally: 

"You  ought  to  take  something  for  that  cough  of  your's.  I  would  if 
it  was  mine." 

The  stranger,  still  choking,  shook  his  head. 

"Where  does  it  take  you  ?" 

"Here,"  resting  a  bony  hand  on  his  sunken  chest. 

"Lungs?" 

The  stranger's  jaws  grew  rigid.  He  favoured  the  driver  with  a  sinis- 
ter frown. 

There  was  silence  between  them  for  a  little  space,  which  Mr.  Bart- 
lett devoted  to  a  thoughtful  study  of  his  companion.  Under  this  close 
scrutiny  the  stranger  moved  restlessly.  A  sense  of  the  other's  physical 
health  oppressed  him;  it  seemed  to  take  from  his  own  slender  stock  of 
vitality. 

"Hope  I  ain't  crowding  you,"  said  Mr.  Bartlett.  "Here,  I'll  make 


CHAPTER  ONE  5 

more  room  for  you.  Well  sir,  Benson's  about  the  healthiest  place  I 
know  of.  When  a  man  gets  ready  to  die  there,  he  has  to  move  away  to 
doit." 

"Who  the  hell's  talking  about  dying  ?"  demanded  the  stranger  sav- 
agely. "There  are  plenty  of  graveyards  where  I  came  from." 

"There  are  plenty  of  graveyards  everywhere;  yes  sir,  you'd  have  to 
do  a  heap  of  travelling  to  get  shut  of  them."  admitted  Mr.  Bartlett  im- 
partially. 

"And  all  the  thundering  fools  ain't  buried  yet,"  said  the  stranger 
shortly. 

Mr.  Bartlett  meditated  on  this  apparently  irrelevant  remark  in  si- 
lence. He  had  found  the  stranger  taciturn  and  sullen,  or  given  to 
flashes  of  grim  humour. 

"Where's  Landray's  mill  ?"  the  latter  now  demanded,  the  glint  of 
anger  slowly  fading  from  his  eyes. 

"See  that  clump  of  willows  down  yonder,  to  the  right  of  the  road  ? 
It's  just  back  of  them." 

"Who's  running  it?" 

"Old  General  Landray's  sons,  Bush  and  Steve,"  he  spoke  of  them 
with  easy  familiarity. 

"  I  see  you  know  them,"  said  the  stranger. 

"  It'd  be  funny  if  I  didn't, — everybody  knows  'em." 

"I  reckon  so,"  said  the  stranger  briefly. 

"I  allow  you  knowed  the  general  ?"  remarked  Mr.  Bartlett. 

"I  recollect  him  well  enough." 

"He  was  right  smart  of  a  man  in  his  day,  and  one  of  the  old  original 
first  settlers.  I  knowed  him  well  myself,"  observed  Mr.  Bartlett. 

"  Powerful  easy  man  to  get  acquainted  with;  awful  familiar,  wa'n't 
he  ?"  and  the  stranger  grinned  evilly. 

"Well,  I  knowed  him  when  I  seen  him,"  said  Mr.  Bartlett,  with 
some  reserve;  and  he  seemed  willing  to  abandon  the  subject.  "What 
you  laughing  at  ?"  he  added  quickly,  for  the  stranger  was  chuckling 
softly  to  himself. 

"Oh,  nothing  much.  Did  you  know  him  after  he  was  took  with  the 
gout  ?  You're  sort  of  fat ;  say  now,  did  he  ever  cuss  you  for  getting 
in  his  way  ?  It's  likely  that's  what  brought  you  to  his  notice,"  and  he 
exploded  in  a  burst  of  harsh  laughter.  "Oh,  yes,  I  reckon  you  knowed 
him  well  —  when  you  seen  him." 

This  singular  assault  on  his  innocent  pretensions  had  a  marked 
and  chilling  effect  on  the  driver.  He  edged  away  from  the  stranger, 


«  THE  LANDRAYS 

and  there  was  a  long  pause;  but  silence  was  not  to  be  where  Mr.  Bart- 
lett  was  concerned.  He  now  asked,  pointing  to  the  sleeping  child, 
"Ain't  you  going  to  wake  him  up  ?  He'll  feel  as  if  he'd  missed  some- 
thing." 

"I  guess  he'll  have  a  chance  to  see  all  there  is  to  see  when  we  get 
there.  He's  clean  tired  out.  You  say  the  Landray  boys  have  the  mill  ? 
The  old  general  used  to  own  a  distillery  across  the  race  from  it;  what 
became  of  that?" 

"It's  there  yet;  Levi  Tucker  has  it  now.  He's  got  the  tavern,  too, 
and  I  don't  suppose  he'd  care  to  part  with  either.  He's  his  own  best 
customer;  Colonel  Sharp  says  he's  producer  and  consumer  both;  I  al- 
low you  didn't  know  the  colonel  ?" 

Again  the  stranger  shook  his  head,  and  the  driver's  placid  voice 
just  pitched  to  carry  above  the  rattle  of  wheels  and  the  beat  of  hoofs, 
droned  on,  a  colourless  monotone  of  sound. 

"I  didn't  suppose  you  did,  he's  since  your  time,  I  guess;  he's  editor 
of  the  Pioneer  at  Benson,  and  a  powerful  public  speaker;  I  reckon 
near  about  as  good  as  old  Webster  himself,  only  he  ain't  got  the  name. 
I  don't  remember  ever  seeing  him  but  what  he  had  his  left  hand 
tucked  in  at  the  top  of  his  wes'-coat ;  yes,  I  reckon  you  might  say  he 
was  a  natural  born  speaker;  when  he  gets  stumped  for  a  word  he  just 
digs  it  up  from  one  of  them  dead  languages,  and  everything  he  says  is 
as  full  of  meat  as  an  egg;  it  makes  you  puzzle  and  study,  and  think, 
and  even  then  you  don't  really  get  what  he's  driving  at  more  than  half 
the  time.  He's  a  mighty  strong  tobacco  chewer,  too,  and  spits  clean 
as  a  fox  —  why  clean  as  a  fox  I  don't  know,"  he  added,  but  he  was 
evidently  much  pleased  with  this  picturesque  description  of  the  col- 
onel's favourite  vice. 

The  stranger's  glance  had  wandered  down  into  the  cool  depths  of 
the  valley.  It  was  twenty  years  since  his  eyes  had  rested  on  its  peace 
and  calm;  its  beauty  of  sun  and  shade  and  summer-time;  much  of  his 
courage  and  more  of  his  hope  had  gone  in  those  years;  he  was  coming 
back,  wasted  and  worn,  to  the  spot  he  had  never  ceased  to  speak  of 
and  to  think  of  as  home.  He  had  looked  forward  to  this  return  for 
health,  but  he  knew  now  that  the  magic  he  had  expected  in  his  misery 
and  home-sickness  was  not  there;  but  he  was  inarticulate  in  his  suffer- 
ing, and  perhaps  mercifully  enough  did  not  know  its  depths,  so  even 
his  own  rude  pity  for  himself  was  after  all  but  the  burlesque  of  the 
tragedy  he  had  lived.  Yet  there  still  remained  that  greater  purpose 
which  was  to  make  the  road  smooth  for  the  child  at  his  side  where  it 


CHAPTER  ONE  7 

had  been  filled  with  difficulties  for  him;  there  should  be  no  more 
hardships,  no  more  of  those  vast  solitudes  that  sapped  the  life  that 
filtered  into  them,  that  crazed  or  brutalized;  these  he  had  know;  but 
these  the  boy  should  never  know,  for  him  there  should  be  ease  and 
riches,  —  splendid  golden  riches;  his  ignorance  could  scarce  con- 
ceive their  limit,  the  possibilities  were  so  vast.  Now  he  leaned  far 
forward  in  his  seat,  hunger  for  the  sight  of  some  familiar  object 
pinched  his  face  with  sudden  longing. 

"It's  mighty  pretty!"  he  said  at  last  with  a  deep  breath. 

"Ain't  it  ?"  agreed  Mr.  Bartlett  indulgently. 

But  the  log  cabins  he  had  known  were  gone,  and  frame  houses 
painted  an  unvarying  white  with  vivid  green  blinds  closed  to  the  sun 
had  taken  their  place.  To  the  east  and  to  the  west  of  the  town  were 
waving  fields  of  grain;  with  here  and  there  an  island  of  dense  shade 
where  a  strip  of  woodland  had  been  spared  by  the  axe  of  the  pioneer; 
on  some  of  the  more  rugged  hillsides  from  which  the  timber  had  been 
but  recently  cleared  the  blackened  stumps  were  still  standing.  A 
blur  of  sound  rose  from  the  valley,  it  was  like  the  droning  of  bees. 

"That's  the  old  Bently  furnace  I  hear,  ain't  it  ?" 

"That's  what  it  is,"  said  Mr.  Bartlett. 

The  stranger  sank  back  with  a  gesture  of  weariness,  "It's  a  hell  of 
a  ways  to  come,"  he  said  sourly.  "It  will  be  a  lot  easier  when  they  get 
the  railroads  through  here;  that  will  knock  you,  pardner,"  he  added  as 
a  pleasant  afterthought. 

"I  don't  know  about  that;"  said  Mr.  Bartlett  quickly.  "I  guess  it's 
going  to  be  a  right  smart  while  before  we  hit  on  anything  to  beat 
hosses;  the  railroads  is  all  right  as  far  as  they  go,  but  the  stages  is  here 
to  stay.  I  reckon  folks  will  always  be  in  a  hurry  for  the  mail." 

"Well,  I'd  hate  to  think  anything  would  ever  interfere  with  you," 
said  the  stranger  with  an  ugly  grin. 

"How  far  did  you  say  you'd  come?"  inquired  Mr.  Bartlett  casu- 
ally. 

"I  allow  I  didn't  say,"  said  the  other  briefly. 

"  I  reckon  you  ain't  come  any  further  than  Pittsburg,"  urged  Mr. 
Bartlett  tentatively. 

"You  reckon  not  ?"  and  the  stranger  smiled. 

"Philadelphia  ?"  queried  the  driver. 

"No." 

"New  York,  maybe  ?"  cautiously. 

"I  been  there,  but  that  ain't  a  patch  on  the  distance  I've  come." 


g  THE  LANDRAYS 

"Sailoring,  maybe?" 

"Not  any.  I  seen  all  the  salt  water  I  want  to." 

"Sick  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Bartlett  deeply  interested. 

"I  like  to  throw  up  my  toes." 

"You  don't  say!" 

Here  the  boy  awoke  with  a  start.  "Are  we  there  yet,  Pop  ?"  h« 
asked,  rubbing  his  eyes  sleepily. 

The  man's  lips  parted  in  a  smile.  "That's  Benson  ahead  of  us,  son; 
we're  almost  there.  Them's  the  church  spires;  and  that  round, 
dome-like  thing's  the  court-house  that  you've  heard  me  tell  about." 
There  was  not  much  of  the  town  to  see  beyond  the  roofs  of  a  few 
buildings  which  here  and  there  showed  among  the  trees,  but  the  child 
was  deeply  impressed. 

"Is  that  the  place  where  you  was  a  little  boy,  Pop  ?"  he  questioned 
in  an  awestruck  tone.  He  was  quite  overcome  by  the  sight  of  it;  he 
stretched  his  tired  limbs  with  a  sense  of  freedom  and  physical  relief. 

It's  a  pretty  gay  looking  town,  ain't  it  ?  remarked  Mr.  Bartlett, 
with  ponderous  playfulness. 

The  child  nestled  closer  to  his  father's  side.  "Is  that  the  crick  off 
yonder  ? "  he  asked. 

"That's  what  it  is,  son,  but  the  banks  are  pretty  well  grown  up  with 
willows  since  my  time." 

"Where's  the  sheep-wash,  Pop,  where  you  swum  the  lambs  ?"  He 
was  a  grave  little  boy,  and  he  had  come  a  great  way  to  see  all  these 
wonders. 

His  father  turned  a  trifle  shame-facedly  to  Mr.  Bartlett: 

"I  been  trying  to  hearten  him  up  a  bit  on  the  trip,"  he  explained; 
then  he  added,  "You  can't  see  the  sheep-wash  from  here,  son;  it's  off 
to  the  other  side  of  the  town." 

"Oh!  Where's  the  sugar  bush,  where  you  and  Grandpap  made  the 
long  sweetening,  and  where  you  killed  the  timber-wolf,  have  we 
passed  that?" 

The  man  glanced  back  over  his  shoulder,  "I  reckon  from  the  look 
of  things  that's  been  cleaned  up,"  he  said  regretfully.  "I  laid  off  to 
show  it  to  you  as  we  come  along." 

"I  wish  she  was  here,  don't  you,  Pop  ?"  said  the  boy  in  a  whisper, 
and  he  tucked  his  small  hand  into  that  of  his  father.  The  latter  made 
no  answer  to  this. 

'  Do  you  plan  to  locate  in  Benson  ? "  asked  Mr.  Bartlett. 

"Eh?"  said  the  stranger,  roused  from  the  revery  into  which  the 


CHAPTER  ONE  9 

child's  words  had  thrown  him.  "No,  I  guess  not;  I  ain't  come  back  to 
stop.  I  reckon  I  need  more  elbow  room  than  you  got  left  in  this  part 
of  the  country." 

The  boy  nudged  his  father,  and  then  placing  a  small  hand  with 
elaborate  caution  over  his  own  lips  as  if  to  signify  the  need  of  reti- 
cence, smiled  with  deep  cunning.  The  stranger  lapsed  into  a  moody 
silence  and  withdrew  his  eyes  from  the  reach  of  valley  into  which  they 
were  descending,  while  Mr.  Bartlett  returned  his  undivided  attention 
to  the  four  horses  he  was  driving.  At  intervals  the  child  raised  his 
eyes  to  his  father's  face  as  if  to  ask  some  question,  but  respecting  his 
silence  turned  away  again  with  the  question  unasked. 

Having  by  his  time  reached  the  foot  of  Landray's  Hill,  Mr.  Bart- 
lett deftly  released  the  brake,  shook  out  his  lines,  and  the  stage  made 
its  rapid  entry  into  Benson. 


CHAPTER  TWO 

THE  old  stage  road  became  the  Main  Street  at  Benson.  Daily 
over  its  surface,  beneath  the  thick  shade  of  maples  and  oaks, 
creaked  and  rumbled  the  huge  stages  Northward  and  South- 
ward bound.  The  drivers  on  these  stages,  a  tanned  and  whiskered 
fraternity,  were  wont  to  get  the  most  out  of  the  short  half  mile  that 
went  to  make  up  the  distance  between  the  covered  bridge  south  of 
town  and  Levi  Tucker's  red  brick  tavern  on  the  square.  Much  pure 
display  was  achieved  in  the  way  of  galloping  horses  and  cracking 
whips,  as  well  as  some  extra  speed. 

The  arrival  of  each  stage  was  the  cause  of  a  lively,  if  temporary 
excitement.  No  merchant  was  so  busy,  but  he  found  time  to  hurry 
to  his  door  to  note  its  passing.  Dogs  barked  shrilly;  hens,  vocal  with 
fright,  driving  their  panic-stricken  broods  before  them,  would  scurry 
across  the  cool  bricks  of  the  checkered,  grass-grown  pavement,  to 
seek  safety  under  some  lilac  hedge.  Even  the  idlers  on  the  court- 
house steps,  rose  wearily,  as  men  swayed  by  a  strong  but  repellant 
sense  of  duty,  and  slouched  silently  across  the  square.  They  were 
chary  of  words;  for  much  sitting  on  those  steps  had  given  them  the 
wasted  speech  of  men  who  are  talked  out. 

Previous  to  this  sudden  awakening,  Levi  Tucker  would  anticipate 
by  his  frequent  appearance  before  his  tavern,  the  coming  of  the  stage. 
He  would  stand  looking  off  down  the  road,  nervously  snapping  the 
lid  of  his  massive  silver  watch.  A  wait  of  five  minutes  sent  him  to  the 
barn  to  Jim,  the  stableman,  for  a  theory  that  would  explain  this  ex- 
traordinary occurrence.  A  delay  often  minutes  sent  him  to  the  bar  for 
a  drink.  When,  finally  he  heard  the  distant  rumble  of  wheels,  he 
would  return  his  watch  to  the  fob  pocket  of  his  drab  trousers,  and  call 
to  Jim:  "Here  she  comes!"  as  the  stage,  reeling  awkwardly  from  side 
to  side,  thundered  through  the  covered  bridge  and  out  into  the  dusty 
sunlight. 

The  teamsters,  loading  their  freight  wagons  at  the  warehouses 

to 


CHAPTER  TWO  „ 

along  the  river  front,  followed  these  arrivals  with  the  easy  flow  of 
impartial  criticism.  As  men  possessing  profoundly  subtle  views  on 
horse  flesh,  no  little  detail  escaped  them.  They,  too,  were  a  part  of  the 
life  of  that  great  artery  of  pioneer  existence;  and  the  road  and  its 
happenings,  were  to  each  one  of  them,  as  something  intimate  and 
personal.  A  change  of  horses  or  a  change  of  drivers,  were  matters  that 
could  not  be  lightly  banished. 

The  stage  road  followed  in  its  general  direction,  over  hills  and 
through  valleys  and  across  long  reaches  of  level  land,  what  had  been 
an  Indian  trail  at  the  waning  of  the  eighteenth  century,  when  Andrew 
Ballard,  of  Pennsylvania,  the  first  ripple  in  a  vast  wave  of  emigration, 
pushing  manfully  out  into  the  wilderness,  built  his  cabin  among  the 
hazel-bushes  and  scrub-oak  south  of  Benson,  where  he  lived  for  per- 
haps a  year,  the  only  white  man  in  all  that  region. 

The  next  settler,  a  solitary  Jersey  man,  penetrated  some  five  miles 
further  into  the  wilderness  to  the  west  of  Benson,  and  set  up  a  forge, 
from  which  he  supplied  the  Indians  with  knives  and  hatchets. 

Another  year  elapsed,  and  Colonel  Stephen  Landray  of  Oxen  Hill, 
Westmoreland  County,  Virginia,  surveyor  and  soldier,  with  horses, 
wagons  and  a  few  slaves,  following  the  Indian  trail,  found  his  way 
into  the  country.  He  wintered  with  the  Jersey  axe-maker,  after  sending 
his  wagons  back  to  Baltimore,  loaded  with  ginseng  for  the  Chinese 
trade. 

The  fourth  settler  was  a  lone  Yankee,  Jacob  Benson,  who  came 
down  the  trail  from  the  lakes.  With  chain  and  compass  he  lay  out  the 
town,  with  its  large  public  green,  its  Main  Street,  its  North  Street,  and 
South  Street,  and  its  Front  and  Water  Streets,  together  with  one  hun- 
dred and  sixty  lots  in  Section  number  five,  Township  eight,  Range 
five,  United  States  Military  District.  Then,  with  his  town  plot  in  his 
pocket,  he  made  his  way  on  foot  to  the  nearest  land  office,  eighty- 
five  miles  distant,  and  before  a  Justice  of  the  Peace,  acknowledged 
this  important  instrument;  whereupon  Andrew  Ballard,  feeling  that 
he  had  been  crowded  out  of  the  country,  got  together  his  half-breed 
family  and  moved  over  into  Indiana,  where  there  was  nothing  but 
echoes  to  answer  the  crack  of  his  rifle. 

The  country  round  about  Benson  was  soon  parcelled  out  in  what 
were  known  as  tomahawk  rights.  The  pioneer  cut  his  name  with 
hatchet  or  hunting  knife  on  some  convenient  tree,  and  thus  marked 
his  claim.  Jacob  Benson  built  his  cabin  of  hewn  logs  on  the  south  side 
of  the  public  square  and  opened  a  store,  selling  guns,  ammunition, 


12  THE  LANDRAYS 

cheap  trinkets,  and  poor  whisky  to  passing  whites  and  Indians,  at 
a  fabulous  profit  to  himself. 

But  the  stage  road  had  been  a  great  highway  long  before  Jacob 
Benson's  day  —  a  highway  when  the  eighteenth  century  was  young- 
er, and  Jacob  Benson  not  at  all.  From  time  immemorial  the  Indians 
had  used  it  in  their  passings  to  and  fro  between  the  Great  Lakes  on 
the  north,  and  the  Ohio  River  on  the  south.  They  were  using  it  when 
the  first  white  man  set  his  foot  upon  the  Western  World.  They  were 
following  its  windings  beneath  the  broad  arches  of  the  forest  by  sum- 
mer and  winter;  when  the  sunlight  lay  in  golden  patches  on  the  mossy 
mould  of  its  surface;  when  snow  and  frost  clung  thick  to  bough  and 
bush,  and  the  sunlight  glistened  white  and  blinding  among  its  pale 
shadows;  and  even  further  back  than  this,  the  trail  had  been  there, 
a  means  of  human  intercourse  between  the  North  and  the  South. 
Strange  earth-works  and  mounds  rudely  outlined  its  course,  showing 
plainly  that  it  had  been  known  to  the  Indians  predecessors.  But  the 
Mound  Builder  had  vanished,  and  tall  trees  thrived  at  amplest  girth 
on  the  mounds  of  his  building.  He  had  gone  his  way  upon  the  trail, 
had  stepped  from  it  as  silently  as  the  sunlight  faded  over  its  length  at 
evening  to  become  as  intangible  as  a  myth;  and  the  Indian  had  gone 
his  way  upon  it  too,  leaving  not  even  the  print  of  his  moccasin  among 
the  dead  leaves  rotting  beneath  the  old  trees. 

Following  the  Mound  Builders  and  the  Indians,  came  the  superior 
race  to  occupy  the  soil.  Their  first  need  was  a  road,  so  they  felled  a  few 
trees  at  the  trail-side,  or  blew  out  a  few  stumps  with  gunpowder,  and 
the  state  established  it  as  a  post  route  between  the  lake  ports  and 
river  points.  Cabins  sprang  up  along  it  and  were  occupied  by  the 
pioneers  who  made  their  living  partly  from  their  land;  partly  by  hunt- 
ing or  in  trading  with  the  Indians. 

As  emigration  increased,  inns  and  taverns  dotted  the  road;  for  it 
was  destined  to  know  the  passing  of  those,  who,  impelled  by  the  earth 
hunger,  were  pushing  west,  always  west;  on  foot,  on  horseback,  by 
wagon  and  by  stage,  to  found  states  in  the  wilderness  beyond.  The 
blacksmith,  gun-maker,  wheelwright,  cooper,  and  cobbler,  plied  their 
trades  beside  it;  there  was  the  busy  hum  of  their  ceaseless  primi- 
tive industry. 

It  soon  became  a  place  of  wonderful  fascination  and  romance;  with 
its  own  abundant  life,  its  traders,  teamsters,  and  drovers;  its  home- 
seekers,  hunters,  Indian  fighters,  and  adventurers  of  every  conceiv- 
able description.  Up  it  went  the  first  rumour  of  war  in  1 8 1 2,  and  back 


CHAPTER  TWO  13 

down  it  swept  the  first  news  of  Hull's  defeat.  It  saw  the  passing  of 
General  Winchester's  troops  north  to  the  Lake  in  the  dead  of  winter; 
many  of  them  barefoot  and  all  in  tattered  buckskin  or  ragged  home- 
spun, with  their  long,  brown  rifles  held  in  their  frosted  ringers;  and 
later  it  echoed  to  the  news  of  Harrison's  victory  on  the  Thames,  when 
bonfires  blazed  at  every  cross-road  station,  and  live  trees  were  split 
with  gunpowder. 

And  now  the  road  had  seen  half  a  century  of  use.  It  was  heavy 
with  dust  in  summer  from  the  almost  continual  trampling  of  the 
herds  of  horses  and  cattle,  or  droves  of  white,  bleating  sheep;  and 
axle-deep  with  mud  in  spring  and  fall  between  frost  and  thaw;  or 
rutted  deep  in  winter  where  the  wheels  of  the  lumbering  coaches  and 
slow-moving  freight  wagons  had  cut. 

In  Jacob  Benson's  day,  the  fine  old  taste  for  classic  learning  still 
survived;  men  having  the  time  as  well  as  the  inclination  for  such 
things;  and  many  a  land  owner  in  plotting  his  town  site,  gave  it  some 
name  culled  from  Greek  or  Roman  history.  The  Athens,  Romes, 
Homers,  and  Spartas,  dotted  the  map;  but  old  Jacob  Benson,  with 
the  egotism  of  rude  and  satisfied  ignorance,  when  he  lay  out  his  town, 
and  dug  or  burnt  a  few  stumps  from  the  centre  of  what  he  hoped 
would  some  day  be  a  street,  named  it  after  himself;  and  so  it  has  stood 
to  this  very  day,  growing  steadily  and  with  no  apparent  haste,  but 
growing  always. 

In  the  course  of  time  the  cabins,  built  by  the  early  settlers,  of  un- 
barked  logs  with  outside  chimneys  of  mud  and  sticks,  clapboard 
roofs,  and  puncheon  floors,  were  replaced  by  more  pretentious  dwell- 
ings of  hewn  logs,  with  shingled  roof,  having  sawed  lumber  for  doors, 
window  sash,  and  floors.  These  survived  as  stables,  loom-houses,  and 
shops  of  various  sorts;  for  they  in  their  turn  gave  way  to  substantial 
and  often  spacious  homes  of  frame  and  brick.  Indeed,  as  early  as 
1815,  the  town  boasted  a  brick  court-house  which  men  came  from 
afar  to  see.  In  their  reckless  pride  the  townspeople  declared  that  it  was 
one  of  the  finest  public  buildings  in  the  state. 

They  had  been  wonderfully  patient  in  industry,  these  pioneers. 
They  had  built  schools,  churches,  roads  and  mills;  they  had  driven 
out  the  Indians;  and  had  waged  incessant  conflict  against  the  wild 
life  of  their  woods.  They  had  fought  the  forest  back  from  their  doors 
foot  by  foot,  and  from  clearing  to  clearing;  until  their  rail  and  stump 
fences  were  everywhere  in  the  landscape,  climbing  every  hillside  or 
reaching  out  across  every  stretch  of  fertile  bottom  land.  Nor  had  their 


i4  THE  LANDRAYS 

activities  stopped  here.  They  had  played  their  part  in  the  war  of 
1812,  a  part  men  still  spoke  of  with  pride;  Colonel  Lan<iray  recruit- 
ing a  band  of  riflemen  from  among  the  sparse  population.  They  had 
sent  a  company  of  fifty  men  to  aid  Texas  in  her  struggle  for  independ- 
ence, they  had  furnished  and  equipped  two  companies  of  volunteers 
for  the  war  with  Mexico,  and  all  this  while,  year  by  year,  beckoning 
to  them  in  the  West  was  the  wilderness,  with  its  compelling  mystery 
that  drew  them  on  to  its  subduing;  that  made  them  leave  their  homes 
when  they  were  built,  their  fields  when  they  were  cleared. 


CHAPTER  THREE 

> 

§  ^   /§"R-  Bartlett  drew  rein  before  the  tavern  and  greeted  Mr. 

V/ 1  Tucker  with  a  bluff  "Good-morning." 
•1.  »  A  He  looked  as  a  man  may  look  who  has  accomplished 
some  great  thing,  for  so  he  had,  he  had  brought  the  news  of  the 
world  to  Benson's  door;  and  what  matter  if  that  news  had  been  stale 
for  a  week  or  better;  if  it  chanced  to  be  politics  from  Washington, 
or  fashions  from  New  York,  these  slight  delays  did  not  disturb  Ben- 
son in  the  least,  for  the  news  had  not  always  come  so  quickly. 

Colonel  Sharp,  the  editor  of  the  American  Pioneer,  with  his  inev- 
itable volume  of  the  "Odes  of  Horace,"  protruding  from  his  coat 
pocket;  and  Captain  Gibbs,  editor  of  "The  True  Whig,  with  his  in- 
evitable cigar  protruding  from  his  lips,  hurried  across  the  square 
from  their  respective  offices,  each  intent  upon  receiving  his  bundle  of 
Eastern  papers. 

Mr.  Bently,  the  postmaster,  appeared,  accompanied  by  a  half- 
grown  boy  carrying  a  mail  sack;  and  Jim,  the  stableman,  led  out  the 
four  fresh  horses  that  were  to  take  the  place  of  Mr.  Bartlett's  jaded 
teams. 

The  child  gathered  up  the  small  bundle  which  contained  his  own 
and  his  father's  few  belongings,  and  climbed  quickly  down  from  the 
box. 

Before  he  left  his  seat,  the  stranger  turned  to  Mr.  Bartlett  and 
tapping  him  on  the  chest  with  a  long  forefinger,  said:  "You're  mighty 
curious,  you  are,  but  just  you  remember  what  I  said  about  the 
graveyards  and  the  fools;  or  maybe  you'd  better  ask  some  friend's 
opinion  —  he'll  see  the  point." 

He  seemed  to  fling  the  words  at  him  with  an  insolence  that  was  in- 
different of  consequences,  and  before  the  astonished  driver  could 
make  any  reply,  stepped  to  the  wheel  and  from  thence  to  the  ground, 
and  the  coach  an  instant  later  rolled  up  Main  Street. 

The  stranger  stood  like  a  man  in  a  dream  in  the  centre  of  the 

»5 


,6  THE  LANDRAYS 

dusty  road.  He  was  a  tall  gaunt  man  of  thirty-eight  or  forty,  and, 
judging  from  the  cheap  decency  of  his  attire,  he  might  have  been  a 
mechanic  or  superior  sort  of  a  labourer  in  his  best,  for  his  clothes  fit 
him  illy,  and  he  wore  them  as  one  accustomed  to  some  other  dress. 
He  glanced  across  the  hot  square  and  on  beyond  it  to  the  vista  of 
shaded  streets,  where  lay  the  spell  of  the  summer's  heat  and  lethargy. 
His  appearance  was  that  of  one  seeking  out  some  familiar  object,  and 
seeking  in  vain. 

After  a  moment's  hesitation  Mr.  Tucker  stepped  to  his  side  and 
touched  him  on  the  arm.  The  stranger  turned  on  him  with  a  frown 
of  displeasure. 

"Well?  "he  said  shortly. 

Mr.  Tucker  regarded  him  with  amiable  interest. 

"Are  you  expecting  to  meet  any  one?"  he  inquired,  smiling 
genially. 

The  stranger  shook  his  head  sadly.  "No,  I  guess  not,"  he  said 
slowly.  "You  don't  happen  to  know  a  man  by  the  name  of  Silas  Rog- 
ers about  here,  do  you  ?  He  used  to  run  a  blacksmith  shop." 

"Why!  Man,  he's  been  dead  near  about  eight  years.  It  was  all  of 
eight  years  ago  that  we  buried  Silas,  wa'n't  it,  boys  ?"  and  he  turned 
to  the  group  of  idlers  before  the  inn. 

"Going  on  nine,"  corrected  one  of  these  laconically. 

"He  was  well  liked,"  said  Mr.  Tucker. 

The  stranger  made  an  impatient  gesture. 

"Maybe  you  know  Tom  Rogers  ?"  he  said. 

"He's  been  dead  about  ten  years,"  answered  the  innkeeper 
promptly.  "It  was  all  often  years  ago  that  we  buried  Tom,  wa'n't  k 
boys  ?"  and  again  he  turned  to  the  idlers  before  the  inn. 

The  stranger  interrupted  him  quickly  and  resentfully. 

"Seems  to  me  you  take  a  right  smart  interest  in  burying  people;  I 
reckon  you  have  never  thought  how  us  that  are  left  will  feel  when  we 
come  to  plant  you." 

At  this,  Mr.  Tucker's  mouth  opened  in  silent  wonder.  He  was  a 
man  of  few  ideas,  and  these  did  not  yield  themselves  readily  to  words; 
but  it  occurred  to  him  afterward  that  the  stranger's  chance  of  being 
present  on  the  occasion  alluded  to,  was  highly  problematical. 

The  latter  stood  for  a  moment  scowling  at  the  innkeeper,  then  he 
drew  his  tall  form  erect  and  taking  his  son's  hand,  turned  abruptly 
on  his  heel  and  strode  firmly  off  across  the  Square. 

"Touchy,  ain't  he  ?"  said  Mr.  Tucker,  still  amiably  smiling. 


CHAPTER  THREE  ,7 

Conscious  that  the  eyes  of  the  idlers  were  upon  him,  the  stranger 
gained  the  centre  of  the  Square  before  his  pace  slackened  and  his 
shoulders  drooped  again. 

"It's  everywhere! "  he  muttered  to  himself. 

The  boy  looked  up  into  his  face  with  a  glance  of  mute  inquiry.  He 
could  not  understand  what  the  trouble  was,  but  to  him  their  home- 
coming was  already  a  tragic  failure.  At  last  he  said. 

"Ain't this  Benson,  Pop?" 

"Yes,  it's  Benson,  sure  enough,  son." 

He  glanced  down  at  the  child,  and  saw  that  his  eyes  were  filled  with 
tears.  A  spasm  of  pain  crossed  his  own  face. 

"We'll  find  them  presently,  son;  and  they'll  be  mighty  glad  to  see 
us  when  we  tell  them  why  we  have  come  back;  and  we  mustn't  forget 
to  ask  about  that  pony  I've  laid  off  to  get  you  when  our  ship  comes 
in." 

But  the  child  had  ceased  to  care.  He  scarcely  raised  his  eyes  as  they 
went  down  the  street. 

The  maples  cast  cool  shadows  about  them.  It  was  very  still,  for  the 
town  seemed  sleeping  in  the  sultry  warmth  of  that  June  day.  Once, 
twice,  the  stranger  paused,  and  glanced  about  him  as  if  to  make  sure 
of  his  surroundings,  and  then  went  on  unhesitatingly,  leading  the 
child  by  the  hand. 

"There  was  a  many  of  us  once,  son,"  he  was  moved  to  say  in  a 
voice  of  reminiscent  melancholy.  "Your  grandpap  built  a  cabin  down 
on  the  crick  bank." 

They  had  already  left  the  centre  of  the  town,  and  were  approaching 
a  region  of  grass-grown  side  streets. 

"There,  yonder,  you  can  see  it  —  that  old  log  house  through  the 
trees!" 

He  had  quickened  his  pace,  and  presently  they  came  to  a  yard, 
neglected  and  overgrown  with  jimson-weed  and  pokeberry,  and 
with  here  and  there  a  tall  hollyhock  nodding  above  the  rank  vegeta- 
tion. The  ground  fell  way  abruptly  from  the  street  level,  and  at  the 
foot  of  a  steep  incline  flowed  the  Little  Wolf  River.  The  house  was  an 
utter  ruin.  The  windows  were  gone,  and  the  huge  stone  chimney, 
built  of  flat  rocks  gathered  from  the  bed  of  the  Little  Wolf,  leaned 
dangerously.  Like  the  windows  the  doors  were  gone  too;  the  heavy 
hand-rived  shingles  were  moss-grown;  while  daylight  showed  through 
die  wide  gaping  chinks  between  the  logs  from  which  the  clay  had  long 
»ince  fallen.  Nailed  to  the  trunk  of  a  great  elm  that  stood  near  the 


i8  THE  LANDRAYS 

street,  was  a  sign  with  "For  Sale,"  painted  on  it  in  a  palpably  un- 
professional hand. 

The  stranger  surveyed  the  desolation  with  something  very  like 
dismay. 

"I  reckon  twenty  years  is  a  right  smart  of  a  spell  after  all,  son.  It 
seemed  like  yesterday  to  me  —  coming  back." 

But  they  were  not  unobserved.  An  old  man  had  been  watching 
them,  and  now  he  crossed  the  street,  moving  slowly  with  the  aid  of  a 
heavy  cane.  He  was  close  upon  them  before  either  became  aware  of 
his  presence;  then  they  turned,  hearing  his  shuffling  step  upon  the 
path,  and  saw  that  he  was  regarding  them  with  eager  curiosity  out  of 
a  pair  of  beady  black  eyes. 

"Maybe  you  are  thinking  of  buying  ? "  he  said  shrilly. 

"No,  I  reckon  not,"  said  the  stranger;  then  his  face  changed  with 
a  look  of  quick  recognition.  "Why,  you're  old  Pap  Randall!"  he 
cried.  He  seemed  about  to  extend  his  hand,  but  the  other  gave  him  a 
blank  stare;  then  he  screwed  his  weazened  wrinkled  old  face  into  a 
grin. 

"I  reckon  I  been  old  Pap  Randall  a  heap  longer  than  your  memory 
lasts,"  he  said,  chuckling.  "Your  father  might  a  called  me  that,  if 
he'd  knowed  me.  The  Rogers  lived  there  onct,  a  do-less  tribe  outen 
the  mountings  of  Virginia.  Old  Tom  Rogers  and  me  was  soldiers  in 
Colonel  Landray's  company  in  the  second  war  agin  the  British;  afore 
that,  I'd  fit  under  General  Washington  in  the  fust  war  — 

"What's  come  of  the  family  ?"  asked  the  stranger. 

"Gone  —  scattered  like  a  bevy  of  pa'tridges  as  soon  as  they  could 
fly.  The  oldest  boy's  dead;  the  second's  gone  back  to  Virginia;  two  of 
the  girls  married  and  moved  west  to  Illinoy;  and  the  youngest  boy's  in 
Texas  or  somewheres  outen  that  ways.  Old  Tom  was  one  of  the  fust 
settlers  in  Benson.  He  might  a  owned  four  hundred  acres  of  land 
right  about  here  if  he'd  a  mind  to,  but  he  never  held  title  to  more'n 
this  here  scrap  of  an  allotment,  and  a  bit  of  an  out  lot  up  the  crick, 
where  Appleseed  Johnny  onct  had  one  of  his  orchards;  I  reckon 
you've  heard  tell  of  him  ?  He  thought  he  had  a  call  to  kiver  this  here 
country  with  fruit  trees;  they  s.iy  there  ain't  a  county  in  the  state  but 
what's  got  its  orchards  that  Appleseed  Johnny  planted." 

The  stranger  laughed  shortly. 

"I've  heard  you  tell  all  this  before,  Pap."  he  said,  "and  about 
when  the  first  stage  come  through  here  from  across  the  mountains." 

The  old  man  caught  eagerly  at  his  last  words.  "Yes,  and  1  rid  on  it 


CHAPTER  THREE  19 

too!  I  rid  on  the  fust  stage  coach  from  across  the  mountings,  and  I'm 
a  going  to  live  to  ride  on  the  fust  railroad.  They're  building  the 
'hutments  for  the  new  bridge  down  by  the  old  kivered  bridge  now." 
His  beady  eyes  were  wonderfully  brilliant.  "I  reckon  you're  a 
stranger  here  ? " 

"Well,  no,  I'm  old  Tom  Rogers's  son." 

And  by  nightfall,  all  Benson  knew  that  Truman  Rogers,  who  had 
gone  to  Texas,  a  raw  stripling  some  twenty  years  before,  had  re- 
turned home  from  California. 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

AS  night  came  on  the  weather  changed  abruptly,  and  a  cold 
drizzle  set  in. 
At  his  red-brick  tavern,  Levi  Tucker,  in  a  splint-bottom 
chair,  dozed  in  front  of  his  bar.  The  rain  now  falling  in  torrents  and 
driven  by  a  strong  wind,  splashed  loudly  against  the  closely-shuttered 
windows.  The  sperm  oil  in  the  dingy  reeking  lamps,  burnt  noisily, 
protestingly.  There  was  a  steady  drip  from  the  eave  troughs;  and  the 
gutters  were  roaring  rivers  of  muddy  water. 

The  innkeeper  sat  with  his  feet  thrust  far  out,  and  his  fat  freckled 
hands  peacefully  clasped  before  him.  The  rain  had  served  to  keep 
people  in  doors,  and  there  was  a  strong  counter  attraction  at  the 
church,  just  around  the  corner,  where  the  apostle  of  a  new  and  pre- 
posterous propaganda,  known  as  the  Temperance  Movement,  was 
lecturing. 

The  innkeeper  was  frankly  indignant.  What  made  the  whole  affair 
seem  especially  aggravating  and  personal,  was  the  fact  that  his  wife 
was  a  communicant  of  that  church,  Mr.  Tucker's  religion  as  well  as 
his  distillery,  was  in  his  wife's  name,  and  her  devotion  cost  him 
annually  the  equivalent  of  many  gallons  of  his  famous  "Lone  Stager 
Rye,"  a  whisky  which  sophisticated  travellers  had  pronounced  to  be 
unrivalled  west  of  the  Alleghanies. 

During  the  interchange  of  certain  light  domestic  confidences  that 
had  preceded  Mrs.  Tucker's  departure  for  the  lecture,  her  husband 
had  remarked  that  he  did  not  believe  in  mixing  liquor  and  religion; 
whereupon  Mrs.  Tucker,  who  was  young  and  pretty  and  high-spirited 
had  retorted  that  he  could  never  be  accused  of  doing  that,  since  he 
never  ventured  inside  a  church  door;  this  had  led  to  more  words; 
and  Mr.  Tucker  with  some  heat  had  denounced  the  lecturer  as  a 
meddlesome  busybody;  he  had  further  informed  his  wife  that  he 
served  drinks  every  hour  of  the  day,  and  every  day  of  his  life,  to 
Joetter  men. 


20 


CHAPTER  FOUR  21 

"Meaning  yourself,  I  suppose."  said  Mrs.  Tucker,  tartly,  but  with 
heightened  colour. 

Mr.  Tucker  had  ignored  this,  and  had  reminded  her  that  even 
ministers  of  the  Gospel  had  been  known  to  seek  his  bar,  and  had 
there  slacked  their  clerical  thirst,  without  fear  and  without  shame, 
"As  man  to  man,"  he  added  feelingly. 

"One  minister,"  corrected  Mrs.  Tucker,  "and  he  had  a  very  red 
nose." 

This  seemed  such  an  unworthy  objection  to  Mr.  Tucker  that  he 
had  allowed  the  matter  to  drop.  But  the  lecture  and  the  rain  com- 
bined had  proven  disastrous  to  business.  Colonel  Sharp  had  dropped 
in  for  his  usual  nightcap,  a  carefully-measured  three  fingers;  he  had 
favoured  Mr.  Tucker  with  a  Latin  quotation,  and  Mr.  Tucker  had 
favoured  him  with  the  opinion  that  they  were  likely  to  have  a  spell  of 
weather.  N«xt,  a  belated  farmer  had  stopped  to  have  a  jug  filled  with 
apple  brandy;  he  had  ventured  a  few  occult  observations  on  the  con- 
dition of  the  crops,  and  had  informed  Mr.  Tucker  that  it  was  the  first 
rainy  tenth  of  June  in  two  years,  and  that  up  to  four  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon  it  had  been  the  hottest  tenth  of  June  in  five  years;  then  he 
had  gathered  his  jug  of  brandy  up  under  his  arm,  and  had  departed 
into  the  night;  and  the  innkeeper,  rotund  and  grey,  with  his  two 
sparse  wisps  of  hair  carefully  plastered  back  of  his  ears,  and  looking 
not  unlike  an  aged  and  degenerate  cupid,  a  cupid,  who  through 
some  secret  grief  had  taken  to  drink,  dozed  in  solitude  before  his  bar. 

Suddenly,  he  was  aroused  by  hearing  a  step  on  the  brick  pavement 
outside  the  door.  A  man  seemed  to  pause  there  irresolutely;  then  a 
hand  was  placed  upon  the  latch,  the  door  swung  slowly  open,  and 
Truman  Rogers,  with  his  son  at  his  side,  stood  revealed  upon  the 
threshold. 

"Come  in,  man,  come  in,"  cried  Mr.  Tucker. 

Rogers  pulled  the  door  to  after  him,  and  moved  into  the  room;  his 
clothes  were  wet  and  steaming,  the  wide  brim  of  his  hat  drooped,  hid- 
ing his  face,  and  in  the  half  light  of  the  dingy  lamps  he  looked  more 
like  a  gaunt  shadow  than  a  living  man. 

The  boy  at  his  side  kept  fast  hold  of  his  hand;  he,  too,  was  shivering 
under  the  drag  of  his  clammy  garments,  but  he  seemed  to  exercise  a 
certain  protecting  care  toward  his  father,  for  his  glance  was  full  of 
childish  tenderness,  not  unmixed  with  concern. 

"You'd  better  have  a  dish  of  liquor  right  now,"  said  Mr.  Tucker;  he 
added  hospitably:  "It's  on  the  house,  man;  I  knew  your  father  well." 


22  THE  LANDRAYS 

The  innkeeper  hurried  behind  his  bar,  and  the  Californian  poured 
himself  a  full  glass  from  the  bottle  he  pushed  toward  him.  "Here's 
how,"  he  said,  and  he  drained  it  at  a  single  swallow. 

Mr.  Tucker  emptied  a  dash  of  spirits  into  a  second  glass  and  added 
a  generous  portion  of  water;  this  he  handed  to  the  child,  saying, 
"Here,  sonny,  this  will  warm  you  up  inside." 

The  child  drank  the  mixture  with  a  wry  face.  Mr.  Tucker  laughed. 

"Takes  right  hold,  don't  it?  Well,  it's  a  good  friend,  but  a  poor 
master,"  and  he  thoughtfully  filled  a  third  glass  for  himself.  "Here's 
to  you,  and  me,  and  all  of  us,"  he  said,  smiling  genially. 

Rogers  seated  himself  in  the  chair  the  innkeeper  had  vacated;  the 
child  stole  quietly  to  his  side. 

"I  reckon  you  didn't  find  many  people  you  knew  here  about,"  ob- 
served Mr.  Tucker,  as  he  returned  his  glass  to  the  bar. 

"Not  one."  His  tone  was  one  of  utter  hopelessness.  It  gave  a  tragic 
touch  to  his  drooping  figure.  The  boy  crept  into  his  father's  arms;  his 
movement  gave  a  new  direction  to  the  latter's  thoughts.  "I  expect 
you're  plumb  tuckered  out,  son,"  he  said  gently,  smiling  sadly  down 
on  the  grave,  upturned  face.  "I  expect  bed's  about  the  best  place  for 
you;  what  do  you  say  ? " 

The  child  nodded  wearily. 

Rogers  turned  to  the  innkeeper.  "  I  suppose  you  can  nouse  us  over 
night?  "he  said. 

"To  be  sure  I  can,"  answered  Mr.  Tucker  promptly.  "That's  my 
business;  entertainment  for  man  and  beast." 

"I'll  put  my  boy  to  bed  then;  show  a  way  with  a  light,  will  you  ?" 
he  rose  stiffly  with  the  child  in  his  arms,  and  preceded  by  the  inn- 
keeper, carrying  a  lamp,  quitted  the  room.  A  few  minutes  later  the 
two  men  returned  to  the  bar,  and  Rogers  resumed  his  chair.  His  atti- 
tude was  one  of  profound  dejection.  His  hope  was  dying  a  hard  death. 
Perhaps  he  could  not  have  told  if  he  had  tried,  just  all  he  had  ex- 
pected from  his  return  to  Benson,  but  for  days  and  weeks  and 
months,  it  had  been  the  background  of  his  splendid  dreams. 

Not  heeding  the  presence  of  his  host,  he  leaned  forward  in  his 
chair,  his  elbows  resting  on  his  knees,  and  his  chin  sunk  in  his  palms, 
grim,  desperate. 

The  innkeeper  seated  himself  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  room,  and 
fell  to  studying  him.  He  had  seen  men  look  much  as  he  looked,  who 
had  lost  their  last  dollar  at  cards. 

Mrs.  Tucker,  thrilled  and  edified,  and  under  escort  of  the  faithful 


CHAPTER  FOUR  23 

Jim,  carrying  a  lantern,  returned  from  the  lecture  and  entered  the 
tavern  by  a  rear  door.  Her  husband  presently  heard  her  footsteps  in 
the  room  overhead,  where  the  heels  of  her  shoes  tapped  the  floor  ag- 
gressively; and  he  muttered  the  single  word  "Tantrums,"  under  his 
breath,  while  his  face  took  on  an  expression  of  great  resignation. 

Here  Rogers  broke  the  silence.  "Hope  I  ain't  keeping  you,"  he 
said. 

"You  ain't,"  answered  Mr.  Tucker,  with  what  was  for  him  un- 
usual decision. 

"I  didn't  know  but  you  might  want  to  close  up,"  explained  Rogers 
civilly. 

"I  don't,"  returned  Mr.  Tucker,  with  quiet  determination.  "I 
want  to  chew  a  little  more  tobacco  before  I  go  to  bed." 

There  was  another  long  pause.  Rogers  continued  to  stare  into 
vacancy,  and  Mr.  Tucker,  round-eyed  and  wondering,  continued  to 
stare  at  Rogers.  They  might  have  been  sitting  thus  ten  minutes,  when 
suddenly  the  street  door  swung  open,  and  three  men  entered  the 
room.  The  first  of  these  was  Captain  Nathan  Gibbs,  editor  of  The 
True  Whig;  The  captain,  whose  title  had  been  derived  from  the 
militia,  was  blond  and  florid,  and  attired  in  immaculate  broadcloth 
and  spotless  linen.  He  was,  perhaps,  five  and  thirty  years  old,  but  he 
had  been  a  man  of  many  and  varied  activities. 

His  companions  were  Bushrod  and  Stephen  Landray.  They  were 
men  in  the  prime  of  life,  and  much  alike  in  appearance.  They  were 
tall  and  lean  and  strong,  with  dark  animated  eyes,  and  fine  expressive 
faces.  There  was  something  Roman  and  patrician  in  their  bearing; 
and  when  they  spoke  it  was  with  a  perceptibly  Southern  drawl;  for 
the  Landrays  were  from  Virginia,  and  of  good  cavalier  stock.  The 
fifth  of  their  name  in  the  Royal  Colony,  a  Stephen  Mason  Landray, 
had  afterward  risen  to  a  high  rank  in  the  Continental  Army.  His 
son,  another  Stephen  Mason  Landray,  had  been  the  third  settler  at 
Benson,  and  the  great  man  of  the  community  in  pioneer  days.  His 
fame  still  survived;  he  had  served  with  distinction  against  the  Indians 
and  English,  when  war  was  abroad  in  the  land,  and  he  had  lived  in 
times  of  peace,  with  much  simple  dignity  and  kindliness,  among  the 
ruder  and  poorer  folk  of  the  frontier  who  were  his  neighbours. 

"Yes  sir,"  Gibbs  was  saying  as  the  three  men  entered  the  room. 
"If  what  we  hear  is  true,  it  offers  the  grandest  opportunity  for  youth 
and  energy;  of  new  field  for  capital;  a  — 

"Hold  on,  Gibbs,"  interrupted  Stephen  Landray.  "This  will  never 


24  THE  LANDRAYS 

do;  in  common  with  the  rest  of  the  Whigs  you  were  opposed  to  the 
annexation  of  Texas,  the  war  with  Mexico,  and  the  seizure  of  Cali- 
fornia. If  your  memory  fails  you  on  this  point,  you  have  only  to  read 
some  of  your  own  editorials." 

"  But  this,  my  dear  fellow,  puts  a  new  complexion  on  the  whole 
matter." 

"Oh!  no,  it  don't,  Gibbs;  you  must  be  consistent,"  urged  Bushrod. 

"Consistency  be  damned,"  retorted  Gibbs,  as  he  turned  to  the  inn- 
keeper who  had  retired  behind  the  bar.  "The  case  bottle,  if  you 
please,  Tucker.  Thanks  —  She  will  be  admitted  to  the  Union  inside 
often  years;  I  wish  to  go  on  record  as  saying  so.  Gentlemen,  meta- 
phorically spqaking,  we  will  now  proceed  to  moisten  the  soil  of  Cali- 
fornia." 

Then,  as  the  three  men  raised  their  glasses,  Truman  Rogers  rose 
from  his  chair;  he  was  all  alive  now  to  what  was  passing  before 
him. 

"What's  wrong  with  California,  Cap  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Tucker,  with 
amiable  interest.  "What's  she  been  a  doing  anyhow  ?" 

"The  Eastern  papers  say  that  gold  has  been  discovered  there," 
replied  Gibbs. 

Truman  Rodgers  strode  to  his  side,  and  took  him  almost  fiercely 
by  the  arm.  "Is  that  so  ?"  he  demanded,  his  voice  hoarse  with  emo- 
tion. 

The  four  men  looked  at  him  in  mute  surprise. 

"Is  that  so?"  he  repeated.  "Do  they  say  where  it  was  found?" 
he  released  his  hold  on  the  captain's  arm,  and  rested  limply  against 
the  bar. 

"At  Sutler's  Fort,  on  the  American  River,"  said  Stephen 
Landray,  slowly. 

The  effect  on  the  Californian  was  electrical.  He  threw  out  his  arms 
despairingly  in  a  single  gesture  of  tragic  renunciation.  "I'm  too  late 
again,  my  luck  every  time — damn  them!  Damn  them!  Why 
couldn't  they  keep  still!  the  fools!" 

"And  why  should  they  keep  still  ?"  demanded  Gibbs  toving  with 
his  empty  glass. 

"Why  should  they?"  furiously.  "What  chance  will  there  be  now 
for  the  men  who  went  into  the  country  first  —  what  chance  will  there 
be  for  me  ?"  Again  he  threw  out  his  arms,  he  seemed  to  put  from  him 
all  hope;  his  mouth  was  bitter  with  the  very  taste  of  his  words. 

"You'll  have  as  good  a  chance  as  any,"  retorted  Gibbs,  still  toy- 


CHAPTER   FOUR  25 

ing  with  his  glass.  "And,  pardon  me,  you're  a  fool  to  expect  more 
than  that." 

"  If  what  the  Eastern  papers  say  is  true,  there  will  be  gold  enough 
for  all  who  are  likely  to  go  in  search  of  it,"  interrupted  Bushrod 
Landray,  good-naturedly.  "You  are  Truman  Rogers  ?" 

Rogers  nodded  dully. 

"And  you  are  direct  from  California  ?"  continued  Landray. 

"I  left  there  five  months  ago,  Mister." 

"You  don't  remember  us,  perhaps,  I  am  Bushrod  Landray,  and 
this  is  my  brother,  Stephen,"  and  he  held  out  his  hand.  "You  have 
reasons  for  believing  this  news  of  Captain  Gibbs  to  be  true?" 

"Mighty  good  reasons,  too;  that's  what  brought  me  here,  fetched 
me  all  this  distance,  when  I  wa'n't  fit  to  travel." 

"You  know  the  gold  to  be  there  ?"  and  Landray  regarded  the  Cali- 
fornian  with  quickened  interest. 

Rogers  hesitated  a  moment;  concealment  had  become  second  na- 
ture to  him.  At  last  he  said,  "I  reckon  1  know  as  much  about  that  as 
any  man  alive,"  and  now  his  sunken  eyes  began  to  flash,  and  the 
colour  came  and  went  on  his  waxen  cheeks,  his  long  fingers  opened  and 
closed  convulsively.  "  I've  seen  it  with  my  own  eyes.  I  thought  I  was 
the  only  one  who  knew  it  was  there,  but  the  word  must  have  come 
around  the  Horn  on  the  next  ship  that  sailed  after  the  one  I  took, 
Sutter's  Fort  —  that's  a  good  hundred  miles  from  where  I  found 
it." 

"What  I'd  like  to  know,"  and  Mr.  Tucker  cleared  his  throat  im- 
pressively, "Is  how  you  found  it  ?" 

"It's  in  small  nuggets,  or  like  fine  dust." 

"The  gold  is  ?"  said  Mr.  Tucker. 

"Yes." 

"It's  agin  nature.  Blamed  if  it  ain't  fishy,"  and  Mr.  Tucker  shook 
his  head  dubiously.  "It  may  be  true;  mind,  I'm  not  disputing  your 
word;  but  I  don't  believe  it.  No  sir,  it's  agin  nature,"  reiterated  Mr. 
Tucker.  "I  reckon  you  didn't  pick  out  much  now,  did  you?"  he 
added  shrewdly. 

"No,"  said  Rogers  regretfully,  "I  didn't.  I  ain't  fit  any  more;  I  got 
an  Indian  arrow  through  my  right  lung,"  here  a  violent  fit  of  cough- 
ing interrupted  him. 

"No,  you  ain't  fit  any  more,"  agreeed  Mr.  Tucker  commiserat- 
ingly. 

"  I  been  looking  to  get  even  with  the  game,"  said  Rogers,  with  a 


26  THE  LANDRAYS 

flash  of  hope  in  his  deep  eyes.  "But  I  reckon  this  news  near  about 
knocks  me.  I  was  empty-handed  when  I  left  here  twenty  years  ago, 
thinking  to  better  myself,  but  I've  come  back  just  as  poor  as  I  went. 
I've  played  it  in  the  hardest  kind  of  luck  right  along,  friends.  I  fought 
Indians  and  Mexicans  in  Texas,  and  helped  drive  them  out  of  the 
country,  but  some  one  else  always  got  the  pick  of  the  land.  I  herded 
sheep  and  cattle,  only  to  have  them  run  off;  and,  last  of  all,  the  In- 
dians cleaned  me  out,  and  killed  my  wife.  Then  I  moved  over  onto  the 
Coast,  hoping  for  a  white  man's  chance;  and  when  I  found  the  gold 
I  thought  my  fortune  was  made,"  harsh,  unhappy  laughter  issued 
from  his  lips.  He  swept  a  hand  across  his  eyes,  emotion  seemed  to 
choke  him.  "I  been  like  a  boy  thinking  how  I'd  spend  that  fortune.  I 
been  staying  awake  nights  figuring  what  I'd  buy  with  it;  but  I 
reckon  I'll  have  chilly  fingers  before  it  burns  a  hole  in  my  pockets.  I 
wanted  to  bring  my  boy  home,  and  then  I  was  going  to  go  back 
overland.  It's  a  damnation  trip  across  the  plains." 

"Indians  ?"  asked  Mr.  Tucker,  his  mouth  agape. 

"Indians,  and  no  water,  and  no  grub,  and  no  guides,  and  no  noth- 
ing. It's  a  hell  of  a  trip,  and  it's  a  hell  of  a  country." 

"I  can't  see  how  this  news  hurts  your  chances  in  the  least,"  said 
Stephen  Landray  kindly,  he  had  not  spoken  until  now.  "To  be  candid 
with  you,  I  think  it  rather  benefits  you  than  otherwise." 

"Why,  of  course,"  said  Bushrod.  "It  will  all  tend  to  create  an  in- 
terest in  such  ventures  as  the  one  you  have  to  propose." 

Rogers  looked  first  from  the  one  to  the  other.  "If  I  could  think  that, 
I'd  sleep  easy  to-night,"  but  he  shook  his  head  sadly.  "The  bloom's 
off;  it  ain't  a  secret  any  longer." 

"Yes,  but  don't  you  see  this  news  is  all  in  proof  of  what  you  would 
want  to  make  people  believe  ?"  urged  Stephen.  "Not  that  any  proof 
would  be  necessary,  perhaps." 

"I've  fetched  my  own  proofs,"  said  Rogers.  "Some  of  the  gold. 
If  it's  proof  you  want,  I  reckon  you  can't  better  that,"  and  he  took 
from  his  pocket  a  small  glass  vial  filled  with  a  dirty  yellow  substance. 
"There's  over  three  ounces  of  gold  dust  there.  It's  worth  sixteen  dol- 
lars an  ounce.  I  reckon  you  can't  beat  that.  Want  to  hold  it  ?"  he 
added  indulgently,  and  passed  the  vial  to  the  innkeeper,  who  took  it 
gingerly,  caressingly,  in  his  fat  fingers. 

At  least  two  of  his  auditors  were  rich  men,  according  to  the  easy 
standard  of  the  times,  while  Tucker  was  well-to-do,  and  the  editor 
fairly  prosperous;  but  the  romance  of  it  all  had  taken  a  powerful  hold 


CHAPTER  FOUR  27 

on  them.  A  subtle  excitement  was  in  the  mind  of  each.  Here,  shorn 
of  the  vexations  and  delays  of  trade,  and  within  reach  of  the  strong 
arm  of  the  willing  digger,  was  that  which  was  the  measure  of  the 
world's  necessity,  .that  by  which  men  guaged  success  or  failure  in 
life.  In  the  presence  of  so  simple  a  process,  each  felt  a  sudden  dis- 
taste for  his  own  task. 

"I  wish  I  was  ten  years  younger  and  free-footed,"  said  Mr.  Tucker, 
at  last.  "I'd  pull  out  of  here  to-morrow,  blamed  if  I  wouldn't." 

The  editor  laughed  softly.  He  was  like  a  man  rousing  from  a  dream. 
"Nonsense!  Luck  won't  be  for  one  in  a  hundred;  perhaps  not  for  one 
in  a  thousand." 

"I'd  run  the  risk,  Cap;  and  if  I  found  any  of  that  dust,  I  wouldn't 
sleep  or  eat  or  drink,  until  I'd  fished  it  out  of  the  soil." 

"What  will  be  my  chance  at  making  up  a  company  here  ?"  asked 
Rogers,  and  now  he  addressed  himself  to  the  Landrays.  He  recog- 
nized in  their  silence  a  deeper  interest  than  that  manifested  by  either 
Mr.  Tucker  or  Captain  Gibbs. 

"Are  you  really  in  earnest  about  going  back?"  asked  Bushrod 
Landray,  curiously. 

Rogers  drew  his  tali  form  erect.  "I  allow  there's  just  about  two 
thousand  miles  of  go  left  in  me.  Mister,"  he  said. 

"And  you  think  you  could  pilot  a  wagon  train  across  the  plains  ?'* 
asked  Stephen. 

"You  give  me  the  chance  to  show  what  I  can  do  —  that's  all  I  ask. 
Of  course,  I  see  now,  I  must  have  been  clean  crazy  to  leave  the  Coast 
when  it  took  my  last  dollar,  but  I  ain't  fit  for  heavy  work  any  more;  I 
go  shut  like  a  clasp-knife;  and  I  was  near  about  wild  to  be  with 
some  of  my  own  kin." 

"You  may  be  able  to  make  up  a  party  here,"  said  Stephen. 

"If  you  are  wise,  you  will  take  your  brother  home,  Bush!"  said 
Gibbs. 

Stephen  turned  to  him:  "Don't  you  see  it  would  not  be  necessary 
for  me  to  go  to  California  to  share  in  a  speculation  of  this  sort  ?" 

"No,  I  can't  see  it  Landray." 

"A  company  could  be  organized.  Whoever  wished  to,  could  take 
shares  in  the  venture;  there  would  be  little  or  no  difficulty  in  finding 
men  to  go  and  do  the  actual  work  of  digging  for  the  gold." 

"Have  you  any  scheme  to  propose  that  would  guarantee  a  fair 
division  of  the  profits  in  the  event  of  there  being  any  ? "  asked  the 
captain. 


a8  THE  LANDRAYS 

Landray  smiled  slightly.  "There  would  be  no  trouble  about  that," 
he  said  hastily.  "For,  of  course,  we  would  only  send  men  in  whom 
we  had  the  fullest  confidence;  and  the  returns  could  be  made  regu- 
larly by  ship,  by  way  of  the  Horn  —  " 

"The  small  end  of  it,"  suggested  Gibbs,  lightly. 

Mr.  Tucker  laughed  boistrously  at  this  sally,  but  neither  of  the 
Landrays  smiled. 

Gibbs  yawned.  "I  think  we  had  all  better  go  home  and  sleep  on  it," 
he  said. 

"You're  right,  so  we  should,"  said  Stephen.  He  turned  to  Rogers. 
"I'd  like  to  see  you  again,  there  are  some  questions  I  want  to  ask  you. 
You'll  be  here  for  a  while,  I  suppose  ?" 

"There  ain't  any  time  to  waste  if  you  mean  business,"  urged  Rog- 
ers eagerly. 

"No,  I  suppose  not;  but  I  don't  know  that  I  do  mean  business. 
You  must  not  take  my  interest  too  seriously,  and  yet  —  " 

Gibbs  slipped  his  arm  through  Stephen's.  "Oh,  come  along  ! 
you  will  wake  up  sane  in  the  morning.  Good-night,  Tucker.  Good- 
night, Mr.  Rogers.  Coming,  Bush  ?" 


CHAPTER    FIVE 

A  YOUNG  man  in  a  dusty  road-cart  drawn  by  a  sedate  and 
comfortable  looking  horse,  turned  in  between  the  tall  white- 
washed posts  at  the  foot  of  Landray's  Lane. 

The  occupant  of  the  cart  had  reached  that  fortunate  period  where 
he  was  knowing  the  best  of  both  youth  and  age,  for  he  was,  perhaps, 
six  or  eight  and  twenty,  but  so  boyishly  slight  of  figure  that  he  might 
readily  have  passed  for  much  younger;  his  apparent  youth  being  still 
further  accented  by  his  smoothly-shaven  face.  It  was  in  no  sense  a 
striking  nor  a  handsome  face,  but  it  was  fresh-coloured  and  pleasant 
to  look  at;  while  the  frank  glance  of  the  grey  eyes  that  lighted  it,  in- 
spired confidence;  and  if  there  was  a  suggestion  of  the  commonplace, 
there  was  also  much  good  nature  and  not  a  little  shrewdness. 

As  he  turned  in  at  the  lane  he  permitted  his  grasp  to  loosen  on  the 
reins,  and  his  horse,  an  animal  of  evident  worth,  which  seemed 
to  be  instantly  aware  of  a  change  of  mood  on  the  part  of  its  driver, 
went  slowly  forward  with  head  down,  its  hoofs  and  the  wheels  of  the 
cart  making  scarcely  any  sound  at  all  on  the  smooth,  closely-cropped 
turf;  now  and  again  it  paused  to  snatch  at  some  tuft  of  tall  growing 
grass,  but  this  provoked  its  master  to  only  the  most  indulgent  of  re- 
monstrances. 

On  either  hand  were  corn-fields.  The  long  rows  rooted  in  the  rich, 
black  loam  of  the  flat  bottom  land  were  at  right  angles  with  the  lane, 
down  which  ran  the  faint  print  of  wheels,  for  it  was  little  used.  Be- 
yond the  corn-fields  on  the  east  was  a  low  growth  of  willows,  here  and 
there  overshadowed  by  the  fantastically  twisted  top  of  some  old 
sycamore;  and  beyond  the  willows  and  the  sycamores  was  still 
another  flat  reach  of  bottom  land,  from  which  came  the  faint  scent  of 
freshly-cut  hay. 

The  broad  green  leaves  of  the  corn  drooped  and  curled  in  the  hot 
noon  sun,  or  rustled  softly  where  a  breath  of  wind  stirred  them.  There 
was  intense,  searching  heat,  and  silence  —  the  waiting,  expectant  si- 

39 


3o  THE  LANDRAYS 

lence  of  an  August  day  when  the  long  rainless  skies  are  about  to  break 
their  drought.  A  thin  blue  mist  quivered  in  the  level  distance,  and  on 
the  soft  green  undulations  of  the  pasture  land,  which  sloped  up  to  the 
densely  wooded  heights  of  Landray's  Hill,  sun  steeped  and  vivid; 
where  the  day  first  smote  with  light,  and  where  in  early  spring  the 
arbutus  bloomed  among  the  melting  patches  of  snow.  In  the  valley, 
in  the  old  Indian  fields,  as  the  first  settlers  had  called  the  open 
grass-land  they  found  along  the  creek-bank,  short  shadows  from  the 
sycamores  barred  the  rustling  corn  with  slanting  shafts  of  a  richer, 
darker  green.  Then  in  a  remote  field  was  heard  the  first  sound  that 
disturbed  the  silent  noon  hour;  and  from  the  meadow  beyond  the 
corn-field,  came  the  keen  swish  of  scythes  in  the  tall  grass,  and  a  sharp 
metallic  ring  tuned  to  a  certain  rhythmic  beat  and  swing  where  a 
mower  had  paused  to  sharpen  his  blade. 

The  lane  ended  at  a  pair  of  bars  near  a  clump  of  trees  which  clus- 
tered about  a  spacious  brick  farm-house.  This  was  the  Landray  home. 
Back  of  the  farm-house  could  be  distinguished  the  queer,  high-hipped 
roof  of  Landray's  mill;  and  from  it  now,  mingling  with  the  other 
sounds,  came  the  rush  of  water  and  the  droning  splash  of  wheels. 

The  young  man  in  the  cart  glanced  about  him  with  a  quick  sense  of 
pleasure.  He  was  in  the  second  generation  away  from  the  soil  him- 
self; his  father  had  been  a  trader,  and  he  was  a  lawyer;  but  the  peace 
of  it  all,  the  promised  plenty  of  the  great  corn-fields,  the  distant  droves 
of  cattle  in  the  shaded  pasture  lands,  the  scent  of  the  hay,  stirred  him 
to  something  very  like  envy. 

"And  he'll  be  leaving  all  this!"  he  muttered  under  his  breath  at 
last;  then  he  added:  "And  he'll  be  leaving  her — I  cannot  under- 
stand it!" 

A  woman  emerged  from  a  path  that  led  off  across  the  fields,  and 
came  down  the  lane  toward  him.  He  did  not  see  her  until  she  was 
quite  close;  but  when  he  became  aware  of  her  presence  he  rose  hastily 
from  his  seat  in  the  cart,  and  hat  in  hand,  sprang  to  the  ground  at  her 
side. 

"Mrs.  Landray,"  he  said,  and  drew  the  reins  forward  from  the  bit 
so  that  he  could  walk  beside  her  and  lead  his  horse. 

She  was  Stephen  Landray's  wife,  and  it  was  of  her  he  had  been 
thinking  but  the  moment  before,  for  he  thought  of  her  more  often 
than  he  realized.  To  him  she  had  always  seemed  a  most  majestic 
person,  strangely  mature,  and  with  a  dignity  and  repose  of  bearing 
that  was  the  consequence  neither  of  age  nor  any  large  experience. 


CHAPTER  FIVE  31 

He  was  vaguely  aware  that  in  actual  years  he  must  be  older  than  she; 
but  nevertheless  on  these  not  frequent  occasions  when  they  met,  she 
made  him  feel  conscious  and  ill  at  ease;  he  was  oppressed  by  a  sense 
of  his  youth  and  inexperience;  and  the  fact  that  his  acquaintance  with 
life  went  no  further  than  Benson,  and  the  three  abutting  counties, 
became  a  thing  to  regret  and  realize  even  with  shame.  But  why  she, 
whose  life  had  been  quite  as  limited  as  his  own,  should  seem  to  carry 
with  her  this  breath  as  from  a  larger  world,  was  something  he  could 
not  explain,  reason  it  out  as  he  would. 

Her  beauty  was  of  the  generous  Southern  type.  The  soft  waves  of 
her  hair  gleamed  like  polished  brass  in  the  sunlight;  it  clustered  in 
soft  rings  on  her  low,  broad  brow;  her  skin  was  like  creamy  satin. 
He  allowed  his  eyes  to  rest  on  the  masses  of  her  hair,  then  on  the 
strong  beautiful  face,  her  full  round  throat,  and  the  lovely  lines  of  her 
perfect  figure. 

"You  have  come  to  see  my  husband,  Mr.  Benson  ?"  she  said. 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Landray;  he  sent  for  me."  He  hesitated  an  instant,  for 
he  did  not  wish  to  tell  her  of  the  nature  of  the  business  that  had 
brought  him  out  from  the  town.  Then  he  added  in  a  matter  of  fact 
tone:  "I  suppose  it's  something  to  do  with  this  California  project." 

Mrs.  Landray's  face  flushed,  then  it  grew  very  white;  she  paused 
and  her  foot  tapped  the  ground  nervously. 

"They  are  two  very  foolish  men,  Mr.  Benson  —  I  mean  my  hus- 
band and  his  brother." 

"Then  he  has  told  you  ?"  he  said  quickly. 

"That  he  is  going  with  the  party  —  yes. " 

She  put  out  her  hand  and  touched  the  reins  Benson  loosely  held. 
"You  can  spare  me  a  moment  ?  I  have  been  waiting  for  you." 

He  bowed  a  trifle  stiffly.  To  him  she  had  always  seemed,  if  any- 
thing, too  undemonstrative,  too  self-reliant;  but  he  saw  now  that 
she  was  shaken  out  of  her  dignity  and  serenity;  she  was  struggling  as 
her  mother  and  her  mother's  mother  before  her  had  struggled,  when 
the  wilderness  spoke  to  the  men  they  loved;  and  she  was  knowing  as 
they  must  have  known,  that  this  masculine  passion  which  no  woman 
could  comprehend,  much  less  share  in,  but  against  which  she  had 
set  her  love,  was  as  vital  as  that  love  itself. 

The  lawyer  put  his  hand  in  the  breast  pocket  of  his  coat  upon  a 
paper  there;  one  sentence  in  this  paper  burned  in  his  memory:  "To 
my  dearly  beloved  wife,  Virginia  Randolph  Landray,"  and  then  the 
nescription  of  the  property  Stephen  Landray  owned  and  wished  to 


32  THE  LANDRAYS 

pass  to  her  in  the.  event  of  his  death.  Benson  had  drawn  up  the  will 
only  the  week  before,  and  he  was  now  taking  it  to  Landray  to  be 
signed  and  witnessed.  "I  am  a  childless  man,  Benson,"  Landray  had 
said,  "  and  should  anything  happen  to  me,  I  want  every  dollar  I  own 
on  earth  to  go  to  her."  And  Landray  had  shown  no  little  emotion, 
for  the  moment  putting  aside  the  habitual  reserve  with  which  he 
cloaked  any  special  stress  of  feeling. 

"  But  what  do  you  want  with  a  will  ?"  Benson  had  asked.  "Whom 
have  you  but  your  wife  ?" 

"I've  got  to  worrying  about  that  Californian  venture  of  our's, 
and  before  I  go  I  want  to  put  my  affairs  in  some  sort  of  shape. " 

"Then  you  shall  go,  after  all  ?"  Benson  had  said. 

"I  must;  there's  no  help  for  it.  What  do  you  think  of  the  scheme, 
anyhow  ? " 

"Well,  I  think  better  of  it  now  that  I  know  you  are  going  to  assume 
the  direction  of  it. " 

"That's  odd,  with  the  knowledge  you  have,"  said  Landray,  with 
a  short  laugh. 

Benson  had  not  been  surprised  at  what  Landray  had  told  him  of 
his  intentions;  indeed,  the  whole  project,  the  journey  overland,  with 
its  hardships  and  possible  danger,  the  search  for  the  gold  when  Cali- 
fornia should  be  reached,  would  be  but  episodes  in  a  speculation  for 
which  he  felt  the  Landrays  were  singularly  fitted.  They  were  not  busi- 
ness men,  no  one  knew  this  better  than  he ;  they  had  possessed 
large  means,  though  the  fortune  which  they  had  inherited  from  their 
father  was  now  much  impaired  by  bad  management  and  the  luckless 
ventures  in  which  they  had  involved  themselves. 

He  had  felt,  however,  that  their  lack  of  ordinary  business  thrift 
would  not  be  any  special  hindrance  in  such  an  enterprise  as  this; 
where,  after  all,  success  would  come  more  as  the  result  of  chance, 
than  because  of  shrewdness  or  capacity.  Even  when  he  was  most 
critical  of  the  brothers,  not  being  able  to  quite  free  himself  of  a  secret 
contempt,  since  they  had  started  life  with  such  exceptional  oppor- 
tunities, and  had  made  such  poor  use  of  them,  he  admitted  that  under 
such  conditions  as  he  imagined  would  be  found  in  California,  their 
strength  and  courage,  their  physical  readiness  and  vigour  would 
perhaps  more  than  compensate  for  the  lack  of  those  other  qualities 
in  which  they  had  proved  themselves  so  deficient. 

"Yes,  I  think  well  of  the  scheme  now,"  said  the  lawyer  slowly. 
"Much  better  than  I  did  before." 


CHAPTER  FIVE  33 

Landray  laughed  again  carelessly. 

"One  would  think  I  had  a  long  career  of  success  to  point  to, 
lucky  ventures  and  the  like.  But,  Jake,  we  are  going  to  come  back 
rich  men,  and  then,  by  George!  no  more  risks  for  me!  I'll  just  potter 
around  out  at  the  farm,  keep  some  trotting  stock,  and  breed  fancy 
cattle,  and  let  it  go  at  that. " 

"  How  does  Mrs.  Landray  feel  about  this  ? "  the  lawyer  had 
asked. 

"Why,  you  can  fancy,  Benson,"  and  Landray's  handsome  face 
wore  a  look  of  keen  distress.  "She  does  not  know  yet,  she  only  sus- 
pects. Indeed,  no  one  knows  but  you,  and  of  course,  the  investors; 
they  have  made  a  point  of  it  that  Bush  or  I  go;  indeed,  a  good  share 
of  the  money  comes  into  the  enterprise  on  condition  that  one  of  us 
takes  its  direction. " 

A  humorous  twinkle  lurked  in  the  tail  of  the  lawyer's  grey  eyes.  He 
knew  it  was  the  Landray  honesty  rather  than  the  Landray  ability,  of 
which  the  investors  wished  to  assure  themselves. 

"Rogers  is  all  right,"  continued  Landray.  "But  he  is  not  the  man 
to  handle  such  a  venture,  and  then  he  may  give  down  any  day;  it's  a 
question  in  my  mind  if  he  lives  through  the  fall  and  winter  here. " 

"So  Mrs.  Landray  does  not  know  yet  ?" 

"I  don't  imagine  there  is  much  left  to  tell  her,"  said  Landray.  "It's 
too  bad  she's  going  to  feel  it  as  she  is.  If  I  could  I  would  willingly 
make  any  sacrifice  to  be  relieved  of  my  obligation  to  go  —  short  of 
giving  up  the  chance  itself  to  make  a  fortune.  But  one  of  us  must  go, 
our  own  money  and  money  that  would  not  have  come  into  the 
scheme  but  for  us  will  be  involved.  Bush  is  quite  willing  to  make  the 
trip  alone,  but  I  can't  let  him  do  that. " 

"I  cautioned  you  to  avoid  committing  yourselves,"  said  Benson, 
"for  I  feared  this  very  thing  would  happen." 

"I  know  you  did,"  said  Landray  ruefully,  "but  what  was  I  to  do  ? 
They  hung  back  until  we  let  them  think  that  we  were  going;  it  was 
only  then  money  came  in  sight." 

And  Mr.  Benson,  who  admired  a  nice  sense  of  honour,  consid- 
ering it  the  loftiest  guide  to  human  action,  had  concurred  in  this  view 
of  the  case;  but  now,  with  Virginia  Landray's  great  sad  eyes  fixed 
upon  him,  his  ready  sympathy  all  went  out  to  her.  He  regretted  that 
he  had  agreed  with  her  husband;  he  felt,  for  a  brief  instant,  that  the 
reasonable  thing  for  the  latter  to  do  was  to  abandon  the  whole  pro- 
ject, with  credit  if  he  could,  without  credit  if  he  must;  for  what  did 


34  THE  LANDRAYS 

it  matter  what  men  said  or  thought,  where  her  peace  of  mind  was 
concerned  ? 

"You  are  Stephen's  lawyer,"  Mrs.  Landray  said,  "and  I  suppose 
he  has  few  secrets  from  you;  perhaps  you  know  more  of  his  plans 
than  he  has  told  me  ;  until  now  he  has  had  no  secrets  from  me. " 
She  bestowed  upon  Benson  a  troubled,  questioning  glance,  then  she 
made  an  imperious  gesture.  "You  are  to  tell  me  quite  honestly  if  he  is 
as  hopelessly  committed  as  he  thinks  to  this  matter,  and  to  this  man, 
Rogers  —  I  am  not  to  be  put  off ! " 

"He  has  told  you  that  he  is  going  ?"  asked  Benson,  who  wished  to 
be  quite  sure  on  this  point. 

"Yes,"  impatiently. 

The  lawyer  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Very  well,  then,  I  suppose  I 
can  speak  plainly." 

She  fek  a  sudden  sense  of  jealous  displeasure;  by  what  right  did  he 
assume  this  attitude  of  intimacy  with  her  husband;  and  how  dared 
he  even  suggest  that  he  might,  by  any  chance,  know  more  of  Stephen's 
intentions  than  she  did  herself;  but  her  resentment  was  only  momen- 
tary. "You  are  to  tell  me  if  he  is  committed,"  she  said. 

"I  think  he  is,"  said  Benson  slowly. 

She  set  her  lips  firmly.  "Then  I  suppose  it  is  useless  for  me  to 
object. " 

"You  are  very  much  opposed  to  his  going?"  said  Benson.  She 
opened  her  eyes  wide  in  wonder  at  the  question. 

"Would  any  woman  wish  the  man  —  "  she  broke  off  abruptly,  and 
glanced  about  her.  "He  will  be  leaving  all  this,  and  me;  and  for 
what  ?"  She  made  a  little  gesture  with  her  shapely  hand  and  arm. 

"It  is  rather  incomprehensible,  Mrs.  Landray,"  said  the  lawyer. 

"But  why  should  he  wish  to  go  ?  What  can  he  gain  by  going  ?  I 
wonder  if  I  am  to  blame."  She  regarded  Benson  with  anxious, 
searching  eyes. 

"Men  are  restless,"  he  said  lamely. 

"But  why  should  he  be  ?  You  would  not  go  —  '*' 

"I,  no  —  I  have  wanted  to,  though.  But  it's  better  for  me  to  stay. 
They  are  involved,"  he  went  on  slowly.  "I  warned  them  in  the  start 
that  they  must  be  careful  or  this  would  happen;  ar?4  aow  they  are 
stubborn  and  unwilling  to  abandon  a  venture  ?or  wh»ch  they  are 
largely  responsible.  Nothing  would  have  come  of  this  ma"  Rogers's 
efforts  without  their  help." 

"Have  you  taken  shares  in  this  absurd  company  ?" 


CHAPTER  FIVE  35 

He  smiled  a  little  cynically.  "No,  and  I  scarcely  think  I  shall." 
he  hesitated.  "Still  I  admit  the  speculation  has  its  fascinations.  I 
can't  quite  explain  even  to  myself  what  they  are;  but  they  exist.  Yes, 
I've  even  wanted  to  go,"  he  went  on,  smiling  at  her,  "but  I've  never 
found  I  could  afford  to  give  way  to  my  impulses. " 

"But  in  going  you  would  leave  no  one  who  would  suffer  as  I  shall 
suffer  if  Stephen  goes.  I  don't  mean  but  that  your  friends  would 
regret  your  absence  —  "  she  added  hastily. 

He  looked  at  her  curiously.  A  faint,  wistful  smile  played  about  the 
corners  of  his  mouth.  "I  haven't  a  wife,  if  that  is  what  you  mean,"  he 
said  at  last. 

She  looked  up  quickly  into  his  face. 

"Do  you  mean  —  ?"  she  hesitated. 

"Mean  what  ?"  he  asked. 

"Do  you  love  some  one  ?"  she  coloured  slightly. 

"I'd  hardly  call  it  that  —  if  by  that  you  mean  a  person.  Perhaps 
I'd  better  call  it  an  idea,"  he  said,  still  smiling  at  her. 

A  sudden  change  came  to  her  manner.  A  shade  of  reserve  crept  into 
it.  The  man  was  only  her  husband's  lawyer,  he  was  almost  a  stranger 
to  her;  even  her  husband,  with  the  fuller  democracy  of  American 
manhood,  hardly  counted  him  his  equal;  for  he  was  old  Jacob  Ben- 
son's son,  and  old  Jacob  Benson  had  made  his  money  in  questionable 
ways  no  Landray  had  ever  condescended  to  employ.  More  than  this, 
as  speculator  and  land  owner,  and  afterward  as  member  of  the  State 
Legislature  he  had  been  General  Landray 's  rival  and  opponent  in  all 
matters  of  private  concern  and  public  enterprise.  This  was  some- 
tiling  no  rightly  constituted  Landray  would  ever  forgive.  They  might 
respect  young  Jacob  Benson  for  what  he  had  made  of  himself,  handi- 
capped as  he  was  by  such  a  parent,  but  they  were  not  men  to  forget 
^?hose  son  he  was. 

Young  Jacob  Benson  was,  happily,  wholly  unconscious  of  the  rea- 
son for  her  change  in  manner;  if  he  noticed  it  at  all,  he  attributed  it  to 
a  natural  feminine  modesty  —  he  spoke  now  with  a  generous  wish 
that  his  words  might  prove  of  some  comfort  to  her. 

"One  thing  is  sure,  Mrs.  Landray,  they  cannot  go  until  spring,  and 
who  knows  what  may  happen  to  change  their  plans." 

"They  will  go,"  she  said  quietly.  "I  know  Stephen  too  well  not  to 
know  that. " 

"I  dare  say,  if  the  investors  are  of  their  present  mind  eight  months 
hence  —  but  they  may  withdraw. " 


36  THE  LANDRAYS 

"That  will  make  no  difference  to  Stephen  and  his  brother." 

"Even  so,  I  don't  think  you  need  worry,  Mrs.  Landray.  They  will 
soon  be  sick  enough  of  the  venture.  I  fancy  we  shall  soon  see  them 
back  here.  I  know  at  first  they  had  no  intention  of  going;  they 
were  simply  the  largest  shareholders  in  the  enterprise.  A  more  active 
part  has  been  forced  upon  them  by  the  other  shareholders.  You 
know  almost  five  thousand  dollars  have  been  subscribed  already, 
and  as  much  more  will  probably  be  raised;  and  while  there  are  any 
number  of  men  offering  themselves  who  are  willing  to  go  and  dig  for 
the  gold,  they  are  not  the  kind  of  men  one  would  care  to  trust  with  the 
control  of  such  a  sum.  Your  husband  and  his  brother  have  really  been 
coerced  into  going;  they  would  hardly  admit  this,  but  it  is  true,  never- 
theless. " 

There  was  a  long  pause.  At  last  Mrs.  Landray  said : "  I  don't  speak 
of  this  matter  to  my  husband  any  more."  She  set  her  lips  firmly  and 
went  on.  "We  do  not  agree  on  this  point;  but  you  can  tell  me  how  far 
their  plans  are  made.  I  am  quite  out  of  his  confidence;  and  it  is  just 
the  same  with  Ann  and  Bushrod;  he  never  tells  her."  She  smiled 
sadly.  "You  see  this  thirst  for  sudden  riches  has  destroyed  the  peace 
and  happiness  of  at  least  two  homes.  I  wonder  how  many  more  are  to 
be  affected  by  it. " 

"I  suppose  I  am  violating  their  confidence,"  Benson  said,  "but  I 
believe  their  present  plan  is  to  start  down  the  Ohio  in  the  early 
spring. " 

Mrs.  Landray  turned  from  him  abruptly;  her  emotion  mastered 
her;  a  sob  rose  in  her  throat. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Benson,"  she  faltered  with  a  poor  attempt  at 
self-control;  and  then  she  passed  swiftly  down  the  lane  toward  the 
house. 

Benson  followed  her  retreating  figure  with  his  glance  until  she 
passed  from  sight  among  the  trees;  then  he  climbed  slowly  into  the 
cart. 


CHAPTER  SIX 

ROGERS  had  taken  up  his  abode  at  the  tavern.  The  Land- 
rays  had  arranged  with  Tucker  that  he  should  be  their 
guest,  and  that  he  should  want  for  nothing. 

At  first  he  had  shown  some  interest  in  the  town  and  in  the  changes 
that  had  taken  place  during  the  twenty  years  covered  by  his  absence; 
but  as  the  summer  merged  into  fall,  and  fall  into  winter,  he 
kept  more  and  more  within  doors,  establishing  himself  in  the  cheer- 
ful tavern  bar,  where  Mr.  Tucker  presided  with  a  benignity  of  bear- 
ing that  had  mellowed  with  the  years  and  the  passing  of  the  human 
traffic  of  the  stage  road,  whose  straying  feet  had  worn  deep  hollows  in 
the  brick  pavement  beyond  his  door. 

During  those  first  weeks  of  his  stay  in  Benson,  Rogers  might  have 
been  a  Columbus  newly  returned,  or  a  Ponce  de  Leon  with  discov- 
ered fountains  of  perpetual  youth;  and  in  the  spell  of  the  wonders  in 
which  he  dealt,  and  in  which  his  hearers  delighted,  Tucker  felt  his 
reason  reel  and  totter  and  all  but  collapse.  As  he  came  and  went  about 
the  place,  his  eyes  were  always  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  grim 
Californian.  They  sought  him  out  over  the  rim  of  his  glass,  each 
time  it  was  raised  to  his  lips;  and  he  watched  him  by  the  hour  as  he  sat 
in  his  chair  and  sucked  at  the  reed  stem  of  his  red-clay  pipe,  sucked 
and  marvelled,  or  meditated  investment  in  the  company,  a  trans- 
action of  which  he  invariably  thought  better,  however,  before  the  day 
was  ended.  And  when  Rogers  was  not  there  to  tell  his  own  story, 
which  sometimes  chanced,  he  did  it  for  him,  but  always  with  the 
nicest  regard  for  accuracy.  He  had  not  been  ten  yards  from  his  own 
front  door  in  five  years,  indeed,  not  since  he  had  courted  the  third  and 
present  Mrs.  Tucker,  so  that  such  news  as  he  usually  had  to  dissemi- 
nate was  known  to  all  Benson  long  before  he  was  in  possession  of  it; 
but  the  excitement  of  which  Rogers  was  the  centre,  and  in  the  re- 
flected glory  of  which  he  now  dwelt,  recalled  the  days  that  had  fol- 
lowed the  knifing  of  Sheriff  Cadwaller  by  Mr.  Johnny  Saul  in  that 


38  THE  LANDRAYS 

very  room,   and,  considerately  enough,  with  himself  as  the  only 
witness. 

Rogers  had  placed  Benny  in  school,  and  each  evening  after  supper 
he  would  steal  up  to  the  child's  room,  where  Benny  carefully  rehears- 
ed for  his  benefit  such  portions  of  the  lessons  of  the  day  as  he  remem- 
bered, while  his  father  listened,  with  a  look  of  tender  yearning  in  his 
dark,  sunken  eyes.  Then,  when  Benny  was  safely  bestowed  in  his  bed, 
if  custom  was  slack  at  the  bar,  and  he  alone  with  Tucker,  he  would 
sit  silent  and  absorbed,  thinking  of  the  boy  and  the  future  he  had 
planned,  of  the  riches  he  would  yet  achieve  for  him  in  spite  of  sick- 
ness and  mortal  weariness.  It  was  all  so  fair  a  dream,  and  his  hopes 
so  tenderly  unselfish,  that  the  harsh  lines  of  his  face  would  soften; 
and  his  thin,  shaven  lips  whose  hard  expression  usually  indicated 
nothing  beyond  a  dry  reserve,  would  relax  in  a  slow,  wistful  smile; 
and  the  old  innkeeper  watching  him,  would  wonder  in  his  vague  way 
that  one  who  had  seen  so  much  of  violence  and  bloodshed,  who,  by 
his  own  indifferent  telling,  had  been  no  better  than  others  of  his  own 
reckless  class,  could  look  so  mild  and  gentle. 

"I  tell  you,  Tucker,  he's  keen  as  a  briar!"  Rogers  never  wearied 
of  telling  his  companion.  "  I  reckon  he's  about  the  first  of  us  Rogers  in 
many  a  long  year  who's  done  more  than  make  a  cross  when  it  came 
to  signing  his  name." 

"  But  you  got  something  better  than  learning,"  Tucker  would  say, 
with  a  wise  shake  of  his  head.  "You  got  knowledge;  wonderful,  as- 
tonishing knowledge.  Personally  you've  wedged  open  my  mind  more 
than  any  other  man  I  know,  not  excepting  Colonel  Sharp,  who's  been 
talking  Latin  to  me,  which  I  never  did  understand,  for  near  about 
twenty  years;  but  I  can't  see  that  it's  ever  done  me  the  good  you're 
doing  me.  What'll  you  drink  ?" 

From  the  incipiency  of  the  company  on,  that  enterprise  had  seem- 
ed to  Rogers  to  go  forward  with  a  deadly  slowness:  Those  who  in- 
vested in  the  shares  requiring  so  much  of  him  before  they  were  con- 
vinced that  their  money  would  not  only  be  safe,  but  would  increase 
with  the  dazzling  rapidity  he  said,  and  believed  it  must.  Yet,  devoured 
as  he  was  by  impatience,  he  told  his  story  over  and  over,  with  an 
earnestness  that  never  failed  to  fascinate  his  hearers,  though  he  had  to 
meet  the  habitual  caution  of  men  whose  means  had  grown  slowly  in 
trade  or  petty  speculations. 

"It's  disencouraging,"  agreed  Mr.  Tucker  benevolently.  "But  you 
couldn't  a  done  better  than  get  the  Landray  boys  to  take  hold.  Every- 


CHAPTER  SIX  39 

body  knows  them  —  they  got  money  —  they  got  influence;  no  one 
can't  ever  complain  of  any  sharp  practice  from  them.  I've  had  deal- 
ings with  them  myself;  I  bought  the  distillery  from  them.  I  traded 
them  land,  a  thousand  acres  in  Belmont  County.  They  took  that  at 
a  valuation  of  twenty-five  hundred  dollars,  and  I  got  as  much  more  to 
pay;  but  I'm  trying  to  talk  them  into  taking  another  thousand  acres 
instead  of  the  cash.  My  aim  is  to  get  shut  of  r.ll  ':hat  there  land;  then 
my  money  will  be  here  where  I  can  watch  it. :' 

There  were  those  among  Rogers's  auditors,  however,  who  appeared 
quite  ready  to  be  convinced  of  the  reasonableness  of  all  he  promised, 
arguing  with  him  against  their  own  doubt  even;  and  when  he  thought 
it  only  remained  for  them  to  decide  how  many  shares  they  could  take, 
their  enthusiasm  would  suddenly  wane,  they  would  become  cold  and 
hesitating,  frankly  anxious  to  make  their  escape  uncommitted  from 
him  and  from  the  Landrays,  and  this  would  be  the  last  he  would  see  of 
them  for  days;  he  would  give  them  up  for  lost;  and  after  he  had  fully 
made  up  his  mind  that  nothing  would  come  of  it,  they  would  appear 
and  put  their  names  to  the  paper  which  Stephen  Landray  always 
carried,  and  it  was  perhaps  another  hundred  dollars  added  to  the 
capital  stock  of  the  Benson  and  California  Mining  and  Trading 
Company. 

The  necessity  for  haste  was  the  one  thing  he  urged  on  Stephen  and 
his  brother;  but  it  was  December  before  all  of  the  shares  were  actually 
taken,  and  he  was  forced  to  own  that  to  start  across  the  plains  in  the 
dead  of  winter  was  out  of  the  question,  even  if  it  had  been  feasible  to 
make  the  first  stage  of  the  journey  down  the  Ohio.  They  must  wait 
until  spring.  This  delay  had  seemed  the  last  vengeful  fling  of  fate. 
Whatever  was  evil  to  know  and  endure  he  had  known  and  endured  on 
that  far  frontier  where  his  best  years  had  been  spent;  he  had  acquired 
a  fortitude  and  patience  that  rarely  failed  him;  he  had  accepted  hard- 
ship and  danger  as  the  natural,  expected,  things  of  life;  and  the  ordi- 
nary deaths  he  had  seen  men  die,  by  knife  or  bullet,  he  had  himself 
bravely  faced;  but  the  slow  approach  of  an  enemy  he  could  not  see, 
but  could  only  feel  in  his  wasted  muscles  and  weakened  will,  ap- 
palled him. 

"I  can  feel  it  here  —  here  —  gnawing  at  my  throat,  gnawing  like 
some  hungry  varment,"  he  told  Stephen  Landray.  "I  reckon  if  I  was 
a  praying  man,  I'd  pray  to  die  a  sudden  death;  this  is  just  wasting 
away  —  wasting  and  remembering,  and  hoping.  God  Almighty!  Such 
t»nrl  such  remembering. " 


40  THE  LANDRAYS 

But  it  was  only  to  Stephen  that  he  told  his  fears;  he  did  not  speak  of 
them  to  the  others,  and  they  never  guessed  that  a  fever  of  despair  was 
consuming  him. 

Stephen  Landray  was  as  free  from  superstitious  imaginings  as  most 
men,  but  Rogers's  low  spirits,  coupled  with  the  sorrow  and  appre- 
hension Virginia  vainly  strove  to  conceal,  had  its  effect  on  his  mental 
vigour.  A  dozen  times  he  was  on  the  verge  of  appealing  to  the  other 
shareholders  for  his  release  from  the  active  direction  of  an  enterprise 
that  was  going  forward  under  such  distressing  auspices;  but  he  com- 
forted himself  with  the  thought  that  his  absence  would  only  be  for  a 
year  or  two. 

Pride  had  a  good  deal  to  do  with  keeping  him  true  to  his  purpose. 
He  could  recall  the  day  when  the  property  he  and  Bushrod  had  in- 
herited had  constituted  a  great  fortune,  by  far  the  greatest  in  Ben- 
son, but  times  were  slowly  changing,  improvements  in  machinery 
and  methods  had  closed  the  carding  and  fulling  mill  his  father  had 
built  during  his  lifetime;  the  distillery,  which  they  had  solo  to  Tucker, 
no  longer  sent  its  produce  by  flat-boat  down  the  Ohio  and  Mississippi 
to  New  Orleans.  Shrewder  men  than  he  and  his  brother,  had  taken 
away  their  once  profitable  business  as  forwarding  agents,  and  the 
great  warerooms  at  the  mill,  which  had  once  been  piled  high  with 
barrels  of  flour  awaiting  shipment,  were  now  all  but  empty.  He  felt 
that  they  were  being  slowly  but  surely  elbowed  into  the  background 
by  strangers  with  greater  capital  or  greater  ability.  This  was  a  sore 
grief  to  both  brothers,  though  it  was,  perhaps,  not  the  loss  of 
money  they  dreaded  so  much  as  the  fancied  loss  of  prestige. 

While  Stephen  hoped  that  Rogers  might  live  to  enjoy  the  wealth  he 
felt  would  be  the  fruit  of  their  venture,  he  cast  about  him  for  some 
man  who  possessed  a  similar  acquaintance  with  the  West,  if  not  with 
the  gold-fields,  and  remembered  his  cousin  Basil.  This  Basil  Landray 
was  the  son  of  his  father's  younger  brother,  the  late  Colonel  Rupert 
Landray,  of  the  United  States  Army.  Of  Basil  he  knew  little,  except 
that  he  had  been  at  one  time  a  civilian  hanger-on  of  the  army  at  De- 
troit; Later  he  had  known  of  him  as  an  employee  of  the  American 
Fur  Company. 

In  the  early  fall  he  hazarded  a  letter  to  this  cousin  at  Council  Bluffs, 
telling  him  of  the  undertaking  in  which  they  were  about  to  embark, 
and  asking  him  if  he  would  care  to  join  their  party  in  the  spring,  at 
Independence.  After  many  months  a  reply  came;  an  illy-written,  illy- 
spelt  letter,  that  rather  shocked  the  recipient.  From  the  letter  he 


CHAPTER  SIX  41 

gathered  that  Basil  was  seeking  just  such  an  opportunity  as  that  he 
had  offered. 

About  this  time  young  Jacob  Benson  had  occasion  to  drive  out  to 
the  farm  to  see  Landray. 

"Tell  Mr.  Landray  I'm  here,  Sam,"  he  said  to  the  farm-hand  who 
had  taken  his  horse,  and  was  preparing  to  lead  it  away  to  the  stable. 

"He's  at  the  mill,"  said  Sam. 

"  Let  him  know  I'm  here,  please, "  and  the  lawyer  made  his  way  into 
the  house,  where  he  was  shown  into  the  library.  Ten  minutes  later 
Stephen  and  his  brother  entered  the  room. 

"I  hope  we  haven't  kept  you  waiting,  Benson,"  said  the  former. 

"I've  seen  Mr.  Stark,  and  it's  all  right,"  said  the  lawyer.  "I  prom- 
ised you  I'd  let  you  know  at  once." 

"So  he'll  renew  the  note  ?"  said  Stephen,  seating  himself  before  his 
desk. 

"You  are  both  to  see  him  at  the  bank  to-morrow,"  answered  Ben- 
son. There  was  a  brief  pause,  and  then  the  lawyer  asked: 

"How's  the  California  scheme  coming  on?" 

"I  told  you  I  had  heard  from  our  cousin,  Basil  Landray,  did  I 
not?" 

"Yes,  you  had  just  received  his  letter  the  last  time  I  saw  you  in 
town.  Do  you  know  yet  when  you  shall  start  ?" 

"As  soon  as  the  Ohio  is  free  of  ice. " 

"That  won't  be  long  now." 

"No,  I  suppose  not,"  said  Stephen  absently.  "Look  here,"  he 
added  abruptly.  "We've  got  an  offer  for  the  mill." 

"Paxon  ?"  inquired  Benson. 

"Yes.  We  find  we  shall  have  to  let  goof  something,  "said  Stephen; 
there  was  a  shade  of  embarrassment  in  his  tone,  for  the  subject 
was  an  unpleasant  one.  "And  the  mill  is  about  the  only  piece  of  prop- 
erty we  own  that  we  care  to  part  with. " 

The  mill,  a  huge  structure  of  stone,  had  been  erected  by  General 
Landray,  and  was  said  to  occupy  the  site  of  a  building  of  logs  and 
bark,  where  almost  half  a  century  before  had  been  ground  the  first 
corn  and  wheat  grown  in  the  county.  Rude  as  had  been  this  pioneer 
mill,  it  had  represented  the  mechanical  skill  of  the  entire  community. 
A  sugar  trough  had  served  as  a  meal  trough;  while  the  stones  had 
been  bound  with  elm  bark  for  the  want  of  a  proper  metal. 

"Well,  Paxon  is  willing  to  pay  ten  thousand  dollars  for  the  mill,' 
Stephen  continued.  "Two  thousand  down,  and  the  balance  secured 


42  THE  LANDRAYS 

by  his  notes.  This  includes  the  water  rights,  and  about  ninety  acres 
of  land,  and  the  miller's  house." 

"  It  goes  rather  hard  with  us  to  let  go, "  said  Bushrod  Landray,  who 
had  been  standing  before  one  of  the  windows,  his  glance  fixed  on  the 
out-of-doors,  now  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  faced  his  two  com- 
panions. 

Stephen  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair. 

"This  silly  fellow  is  influenced  by  all  sorts  of  impracticable  senti- 
ment. He  doesn't  seem  to  see  that  we  can't  eat  our  cake  and  have  it, 
too.  If  we  go  to  California,  we  shall  have  to  make  some  sacrifice  here; 
and  unless  we  go  fully  prepared  to  make  the  most  of  our  chances,  we 
would  far  better  stay  at  home.  I  tell  you,  the  men  who  go  with  a  few 
thousands  in  hand  to  be  put  out  in  such  advantageous  speculations 
as  may  offer,  will  have  unlimited  opportunities  for  money-making. 
The  mill  isn't  doing  for  us  what  it  did  for  father;  there  is  too  much 
opposition  for  one  thing,  but  Paxon  says  he  can  control  a  profitable 
Ohio  River  trade." 

"Yes,"  agreed  his  brother  reluctantly,  "I  suppose  it  is  better  in 
his  hands  doing  something,  than  in  ours,  doing  nothing.  There's  too 
much  opposition,  as  you  say.  I  can  remember  when  there  was  not 
another  mill  within  fifteen  miles  of  here,  and  now  there  is  twenty  run 
of  stone  in  the  township. " 

"And  we  have  made  a  botch  of  the  business!  "said  Stephen  shortly. 
"Just  remember  we  borrowed  that  money  of  Stark  to  buy  wheat  with, 
and  the  flour  was  thrown  back  on  us  when  we  shipped  it  to  the  lake. 
Musty  and  unsalable,  the  agent  said.  That  cut  last  year's  profits  ex- 
actly in  half:  I'm  sick  of  the  mill!" 

Bushrod  sighed.  "We  have  gone  along  easily  enough,  thanks  to  no 
special  cleverness  of  our  own,  but  we  have  been  drones  and  spenders 
rather  than  anything  else.  If  I  oppose  the  sale  of  the  mill,  it  is  only  be- 
cause I  have  no  mind  to  see  the  property  dwindle." 

"Do  be  reasonable,  Bush!  A  year  or  two  in  California  will  remedy 
all  that,"  said  Stephen  quickly.  "Even  Benson  here  has  faith  in  our 
project!" 

Thus  appealed  to,  the  lawyer  said,  "There  will  probably  be  many 
bitter  disappointments,  but  there's  no  reason  wrhy  cautious  men, 
having  some  capital,  should  not  do  well  in  California,  men  of  that 
kind  are  generally  successful  in  new  countries. " 

"Why,  you  can't  take  up  an  Eastern  newspaper  without  reading  of 
fabulous  strikes. "  Stephen's  dark  eyes  sparkled.  "They  say  the  coun- 


CHAPTER  SIX  43 

try  will  soon  be  flooded  with  diggers  from  all  parts  of  the  world, 
Already  they  are  crowding  in  from  Texas  and  Mexico,  and  the  Sand- 
wich Islands.  Of  course,  there  will  be  some  luckier  than  others,  but 
thank  God,  there  promises  to  be  enough  for  all!" 

Benson  smiled  cynically.  The  depth  of  Landray's  worldly  inex- 
perience tickled  his  fancy.  He  knew  better  than  to  believe  that  man 
ever  got  something  for  nothing,  or  that  Nature  would  suddenly  open 
her  heart  to  the  gold-seekers  as  she  had  never  before  opened  it  to  the 
struggling  children  of  men.  He  saw  that  Bushrod  shared  his  brother's 
enthusiasm  where  their  joint  venture  was  concerned;  it  was  only  that 
he  was  somewhat  less  ruthless  in  paving  the  way  for  it.  To  Stephen, 
though  he  was  the  younger,  was  left  the  initiative.  The  latter  went  on: 
"We  wish  to  leave  the  loose  ends  of  several  matters  in  your  hands." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  the  farm  ?"  asked  Benson. 

"Oh,  Trent's  brother  Tom  is  going  to  take  it,  stock  and  all.  I  keep 
the  house  for  Virginia,  who  wishes  to  remain  here.  I  wanted  her  to  go 
into  town,  but  she  prefers  not  to. " 

"Then  there  is  the  distillery,"  said  Bushrod. 

"Yes,"  said  Stephen,  "Tucker  still  owes  us  twenty-five  hundred 
dollars  on  it,  but  we've  about  agreed  to  take  a  thousand  acres  more  of 
his  Belmont  County  land  in  lieu  of  the  money. " 

"How  about  the  farm  north  of  town  where  Leonard  lives  ?" 

"Leonard  is  to  stay  on.  He  pays  a  hundred  and  fifty  a  year,  and 
you'll  have  to  keep  after  him  to  get  it.  We  have  about  five  thousand 
dollars  on  our  books  at  the  mill;  most  of  it's  good,  and  I  expect  we  can 
collect  some  of  it  ourselves,  what's  left  we  shall  place  in  your  hands." 

"Hadn't  you  better  draw  up  a  statement  of  your  affairs?"  sug- 
gested Benson.  "Directing  what  I  am  to  do  during  your  absence, 
where  such  and  such  money  is  to  be  used  ?  Of  course,  you  will  have  to 
allow  me  a  certain  latitude,  and  you'd  better  keep  a  copy  of  the 
memorandum;  for  if  you  should  be  detained  in  the  West  longer  than 
you  think  you  shall  be,  you  may  need  it  to  refer  to." 

"If  Bush  agrees  to  the  sale  of  the  mill  —    "  began  Stephen. 

"Oh,  I  guess  I'll  come  around  to  that  if  you'll  just  wait  a  while," 
interposed  his  brother  rather  hopelessly.  "There  wasn't  a  dollar 
against  the  property  in  father's  time,  and  we  have  already  sold  the 
distillery;  and  now  we  are  figuring  on  the  sale  of  the  mill." 

"It  simply  means  that  while  the  estate  was  ample  for  the  support 
of  one  family,  it  is  not  ample  for  the  support  of  two;  and  times  have 
changed;  it  costs  more  to  live  now." 


44  THE  LANDRAYS 

"I'd  be  glad  to  think  the  fault  was  not  all  ours,"  said  Bushrod. 

As  they  talked,  the  light  had  faded  in  the  western  sky  to  a  cold 
radiance.  The  room  was  illuminated  only  by  the  dancing  flames  of  the 
blazing  hickory  logs  upon  the  hearth.  The  three  men  had  gradually 
drawn  nearer  the  fire  as  the  shadows  deepened  about  them.  Now 
Benson  rose  from  his  chair. 

"We'd  better  get  together  at  my  office  in  the  course  of  a  week  or  so, 
and  we'll  fix  up  these  matters." 

"Won't  you  stay  and  take  supper  with  us  ?"  said  Stephen. 

"No,  thank  you." 

There  was  a  gentle  tap  at  the  door,  and  Virginia  entered  the  room, 
carrying  a  lamp.  She  bowed  slightly  to  Benson,  whom  she  had  not 
seen  before,  and  who,  to  her,  seemed  to  be  taking  much  too  active  a 
part  in  her  husband's  concerns.  Her  dislike,  for  it  already  amount- 
ed to  that,  was  scarcely  reasonable,  but  then  she  was  not  always 
reasonable. 

"I  thought  you  would  need  a  light,"  she  explained,  addressing  her 
husband,  "and  Martha  is  busy  with  the  men's  supper." 

"Thank  you  for  remembering  us,"  said  Stephen. 

He  had  risen  and  now  took  the  lamp  from  her  hand;  in  doing  so  his 
fingers  closed  about  her's  with  a  gentle  pressure,  while  his  eyes  look- 
ed smilingly  into  her's;  but  there  was  no  answering  smile.  She  turned 
abruptly  and  quitted  the  room. 

There  was  an  awkward  pause,  then  Bushrod  rose  quickly  from 
his  chair,  with  something  like  a  look  of  dismay  on  his  dark 
face. 

"I  declare,  Stephen,  you  shouldn't  go!  What's  the  use  of  every  one 
being  made  miserable?" 

"Nonsense,  man!"  said  Stephen  with  a  shrug. 

A  little  later  Bushrod  and  Benson  drove  away  together,  and  Steph- 
en, who  had  followed  them  to  the  door,  paused  on  the  porch  watch- 
ing them  out  of  sight.  A  soft  step  roused  him;  his  wife  stood  at  his 
side,  and  placed  a  hand  on  his  arm. 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  said  simply. 

"You're  not  to  blame,"  he  said  kindly.  "I  know  it's  not  the  sort  of 
thing  a  woman  could  have  much  interest  in." 

"Oh,  don't  let  us  speak  of  it  again!  I  want  you  to  remember  only 
that  you  were  happy  during  these,  our  last  days  together,  and  that  I 
loved  you,  as  I  have  always  loved  you,  Stephen  —  sometimes  I  think 
better  than  even  you  comprehend. " 


CHAPTER  SIX  45 

"Why,  you  speak  as  if  it  were  the  end  of  it  all,  when  it's  only  the 
beginning!  Bush  and  I  will  make  our  fortunes —  " 

"Oh,  why  can't  we  be  content  to  be  just  poor,  Stephen  ?  What  does 
it  matter  what  we  lack  so  long  as  we  have  each  other  ?  Once,  not 
very  long  ago,  we  thought  that  would  be  sufficient,"  she  whispered 
softly,  and  to  him  her  every  word  was  a  reproach;  only  his  fancied 
needs,  defended  by  his  native  stubbornness  and  his  inability  to  look 
down  any  path  save  that  he  had  chosen,  was  keeping  him  true  to  his 
purpose. 

"But  we  can't  be  poor,"  he  said  at  last  doggedly.  "I've  wished  it 
were  possible,  but  it's  not!  We  can't  stand  by  and  see  the  fortune  go 
to  pot!" 

"  But  I  thought  our  love  was  enough  —  it  is  for  me,"  she  said  sadly. 

"Why,  bless  your  heart,  dear,  and  so  it  is!"  he  cried  in  a  tone  of 
sturdy  conviction,  slipping  an  arm  about  her. 

"Then  why  must  you  go?"  But  she  knew  that  opposition  was 
useless. 

"Nothing  but  our  necessity  is  taking  me  from  you." 

"Money!"  with  brave  contempt.  "We  can  live  without  that!" 

"I'm  afraid  not,  dear." 

"Why  do  you  so  dread  the  loss  of  fortune  ?  There  are  other  things 
I  dread  more  to  lose." 

"I  swear  I  don't  know;  but  there  is  something  shameful  in  it  to 
me,"  he  said. 

"But  why?" 

"Well,  for  us  it  would  mean  that  we  had  failed,  Bush  and  I,  in 
everything;  that  we  hadn't  the  ability  to  even  hold  on  to  what  father 
left  us.  No,  no,  dear,  the  family  can't  go  to  the  dogs  quite  yet:  It's 
true  we  have  no  children,  and  sometimes  I  have  been  almost  thank- 
ful, but  there's  Bush's  boy  to  carry  on  the  name;  he's  got  to  have  his 
chance  in  life.  I  only  hope  he'll  turn  out  a  shrewder  hand  than  either 
his  father  or  uncle!" 

"There  will  be  enough,  there  has  always  been  enough." 

"That  doesn't  follow:  We  have  about  reached  the  point  now  where 
we'll  feel  the  pinch.  You  mustn't  think  that  anything  short  of  a  real 
need  would  take  me  from  you  ;  only  that  shall  separate  us,  and  the 
separation  will  be  but  brief;  and  then  Bush  and  I  will  come  back  with 
a  fortune  — 

"Only  return  safe  and  well,  dear,  and  never  mind  about  the 
fortune,"  she  said  tenderly,  as  they  turned  back  into  the  house. 


CHAPTER   SEVEN 

THE  town  bell  had  struck  the  hour,  three  clanging  strokes,  and 
even  as  their  echoes  lingered  in  the  silence  and  the  night,  a 
candle  blinked  like  a   solitary  eye  in  an  upper  window  of 
Levi  Tucker's  red-brick  tavern. 

The  night  wind,  an  evil  searching  wind,  that  cut  like  a  knife  and 
chilled  to  the  bone,  swept  both  snow  and  rain  in  troubled  gusts 
across  the  square;  while  the  last  quarter  of  an  April  moon  gave  a  faint 
uncertain  radiance.  Smoke,  illumined  by  a  few  flying  sparks,  which 
the  wind  promptly  extinguished,  issued  from  the  tavern's  kitchen 
chimney,  and  diffused  itself  low  over  the  adjacent  housetops.  It 
seemed  to  bring  with  it  certain  domestic  odours,  as  if  a  breakfast 
were  being  prepared,  and  so  it  was,  the  last  which  three 
members  of  the  Benson  and  California  Mining  and  Trading 
Company  anticipated  sitting  down  to  in  the  town  of  Benson  in 
many  a  long  day. 

The  three  wagons  containing  the  company's  property  stood  be- 
fore the  tavern  door,  their  white  canvas  covers  tightly  drawn;  and 
Robert  Dunlevy  who,  with  young  Walsh  and  Bingham,  was  to  ac- 
company the  Landrays,  was  already  busy  in  the  stable  putting  their 
harness  on  the  horses.  He  wondered  why  Bingham  and  Jim,  Mr. 
Tucker's  stableman,  after  promising  over  night  to  help  him  with 
the  teams,  had  failed  to  appear;  but  evidently  they  had  overslept 
themselves. 

Across  the  yard  in  the  inn  he  heard  Mr.  Tucker,  his  voice  pitched 
in  a  most  unusual  key;  but  he  was  far  too  intent  on  his  work  to  even 
pause  to  listen  to  what  was  passing  there. 

Presently,  Jacob  Benson  and  Bushrod  Landray,  well  muffled  in 
their  great  coats,  hurried  across  the  square;  by  the  wagons  they 
paused. 

"This  looks  like  business,  don't  it  ?"  said  Landray  cheerfully. 

"I  guess  we  are  the  first,"  remarked  the  lawyer,  glancing  about. 

46 


CHAPTER  SEVEN  47 

"No,  Rogers  is  stirring;  I  saw  a  light  in  his  room  a  moment  ago. 
Let's  go  in;  Tucker  promised  to  have  a  breakfast  for  us. " 

A  few  minutes  later,  when  Stephen  Landray  pulled  up  before  the 
tavern  with  Sam  and  the  man  who  was  to  help  back  from  Cincinnati 
with  the  horses  and  gear,  he  found  that  the  teams  were  being  led 
from  the  inn  stable  by  Dunlevy  and  the  tardy  Bingham;  they  were 
whistling,  "O,  Susanna!"  but  they  paused  to  hail  him  with  boister- 
ous good-will,  and  he  returned  their  greeting  with  curt  civility;  their 
cheerfulness  being  the  reverse  of  agreeable  to  him  just  then,  for  his 
thoughts  were  all  of  Virginia;  each  word  and  look  of  her's,  each 
eloquent  gesture,  seemed  to  burn  in  his  memory.  To  part  from  her 
had  been  so  hard  and  cruel  a  thing  to  do,  that  his  courage  had  almost 
failed  him;  and  he  had  driven  into  town  hoping,  absurd  as  he 
knew  the  hope  was,  that  something  might  have  occurred  to  block 
the  venture;  and  under  his  breath  he  cursed  the  implacable  zeal  of  his 
teamsters,  who  were  leaving  nothing  they  desired  not  to  leave,  since 
no  ties  bound  them  to  one  spot  of  earth  more  than  another.  He  would 
have  welcomed  with  joy,  a  single  day's  delay;  but  that  was  not  to  be, 
and  he  looked  about  him  with  a  feeling  of  utter  helplessness. 

Under  the  parted  hood  of  one  of  the  wagons,  and  holding  a  lantern 
between  his  knees,  he  saw  the  Californian  with  Benny  at  his  side. 
Two  spots  of  vivid  colour  burned  on  Rogers's  hollow  cheeks;  his 
dark  eyes  were  wondrously  brilliant;  a  smile  hovered  about  the  corn- 
ers of  his  mouth ;  he  was  knowing  a  foretaste  of  success.  At  last,  out  of 
talk  and  argument,  endless  considering  and  planning,  out  of  the 
deluge  of  words  that  had  preceded  any  actual  doing,  he  had  been  able 
to  get  these  men  started.  Seeing  Stephen,  he  cried  triumphantly: 

"I'll  show  you  California  before  you  see  this  again,  Mr.  Landray!" 
and  he  swept  the  square  with  a  fine  free  gesture. 

"Is  Bush  here  —  and  where  is  Walsh  ?"  asked  Stephen. 

"Your  brother's  indoors,  I  haven't  seen  Walsh." 

"He  hasn't  come  yet,  Mr.  Landray,"  said  Dunlevy,  tightening  a 
hame  strap. 

"Something's  gone  wrong  with  Tucker,"  said  Rogers,  "but  I 
didn't  stay  to  see  what  it  was.  I'm  off  for  California,  and  we  don't 
climb  down  out  of  here  until  the  first  stage  of  the  journey's  done;  do 
we,  son  ?" 

In  the  tavern,  as  he  had  intimated,  all  was  confusion.  Levi  Tucker, 
powerfully  excited,  was  stamping  back  and  forth  in  front  of  his  bar; 
while  Landray  and  the  lawyer  were  vainly  seeking  to  calm  him. 


48  THE  LANDRAYS 

"Here's  a  pretty  mess, "  said  the  former  as  Stephen  entered  the 
room.  "Tucker's  wife  seems  to  be  missing." 

"Seems  to  be  missing!"  cried  the  innkeeper  furiously.  "I  tell  you, 
Bush,  she's  skipped  clean  out!  Left  me,  do  you  hear?  Left  me! 
Well,  I  hope  he'll  trim  the  nonsense  out  of  her  —  I  do  that!" 

"What's  this  ?"  demanded  Stephen,  looking  first  from  one  to  the 
other  of  the  three  men. 

"He  thinks  Julia  has  run  away,"  said  Benson  quietly,  but  his  face 
was  rather  white.  Mrs.  Tucker  was  his  cousin. 

"Thinks!"  snorted  the  innkeeper  contemptuously.  "What  sort  of 
proofs  may  you  be  looking  for,  Jacob  ?  Ain't  I  furnishing  them  by  the 
cartloads  ?  She's  kin  to  you,  and  you  don't  want  to  think  ill  of  her; 
but  just  hear  me,  all  of  you  — 

"He's  been  drinking,"  whispered  Bushrod;  but  Tucker,  whose 
senses  appeared  to  be  wonderfully  acute  all  at  once,  heard  him. 

"Drinking!"  he  exploded,  in  a  thin  shriek  of  anguish.  "Of  course 
I  been  drinking.  What  was  good,  red  licker  made  for  if  it  wa'n't  for 
a  time  like  this  when  you're  publicly  made  a  fool  of  by  a  trifling 
no-account  woman,  whose  head  never  held  an  ounce  of  sense  in 
all  her  born  days!  She's  your  cousin,  Jake,  I  mind  that,  and  my 
word!  she's  damn  little  credit  to  you  —  but  she's  worse  shame  tc 
me." 

Stephen,  with  some  difficulty,  possessed  himself  of  these  facts.  The 
night  before,  the  faithful  Jim  had  taken  Mrs.  Tucker  out  to  her 
father's  farm  on  the  South  Road.  She  had  sent  him  back  with  the 
message  that  her  father  would  drive  her  home  when  she  should  be 
ready  to  return.  Midnight  came,  and  she  did  not  appear;  Mr.  Tucker, 
somewhat  alarmed  for  her  safety,  dispatched  Jim  in  quest  of  her.  He 
had  shortly  returned  with  the  information  that  Captain  Gibbs  had 
called  at  the  farm  early  in  the  evening  and  had  proposed  driving  her  ' 
home,  and  they  had  ridden  away  together,  behind  a  most  excellent 
span  of  horses  which  the  perfidious  Gibbs  had  hired  of  Mr.  Tucker. 
This  was  the  last  any  one  had  seen  of  them. 

The  tavernkeeper  told  Stephen  this  between  sobs,  and  oaths,  and 
threats. 

"Think  of  it,  Steve  —  she's  quit  me  for  that  infernal  scalawag!" 

"You  are  too  willing  to  think  ill  of  her,  Tucker,"  said  Landray. 
"It  may  turn  out  all  right,  and  then  you  will  be  the  first  to  regret  your 
haste. " 

"Man,  I  know  she's  gone  with  him!"  cried  the  tavernkeeper. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN  49 

"Ain't  he  been  hanging  about  here  for  days  past,  and  all  to  get  a 
word  with  her —  I  seen  it!" 

"Perhaps  they've  stopped  somewhere  on  the  way  into  town, 
they  may  have  had  a  breakdown,  or  their  horses  may  have  run  off," 
suggested  Benson. 

"Run  off?  That  team?  No,  sir!  They  have  lit  out  together  — 
damn  her  foolishness,  and  him  just  next  door  to  nothing!  I'll  catch 
them  yet,  though!  Jim!  You  Jim!"  he  bawled.  The  stableman  ap- 
peared at  the  door. 

"What  do  you  want  now,  Tucker  ?"  he  asked. 

"What  I  been  wanting  for  the  last  half  hour  —  a  horse  and  fix!" 

"That's  what  I'm  trying  to  get  for  you,  if  you'd  just  leave  off 
yelling  for  me,"  said  Jim. 

But  Tucker  paid  no  heed  to  him,  he  was  threatening  again. 

"When  I  catch  up  with  them  it  will  go  hard  with  him!  I'll  learn  him 
he  can't  run  off  with  no  wife  of  mine!  You  hear  me  ?  Him  or  me'll  go 
down!" 

"  But  you  are  sure  of  nothing  yet,"  interposed  Stephen,  shocked  at 
the  readiness  he  was  displaying  to  think  the  worst  of  his  wife. 

"I've  watched  'em  together,"  raged  the  wronged  husband.  "I've 
seen  her  blushing  and  giggling.  They  thought  I  didn't  see;  getting  too 
old  to  notice  or  have  good  sense,  I  reckon;  but  I  ain't  been  married 
three  times  not  to  know  what  a  pair  of  fools  look  like  when  they  are  in 
love."  and  he  stormed  back  and  forth  in  front  of  his  bar.  "I  had  good 
luck  with  all  of  my  wives  but  her;  they  were  perfect  ladies,  each  of 
them,  and  to  think  she'd  serve  me  a  trick  like  this!"  Then  he  calmed 
down.  "You  and  Bush  come  into  the  sitting-room;  and  you  too, 
Jacob." 

The  three  men  silently  followed  him  into  the  adjoining  room, 
where  he  threw  open  the  door  of  a  cupboard,  and  fell  to  rumaging 
among  its  contents.  Presently  he  brought  to  light  two  huge  horse- 
pistols,  relics  of  the  War  of  1812.  As  they  were  much  too  large  to  go 
into  his  pockets  he  wrapped  them  in  a  gaily-coloured  quilt. 

"I'll  have  satisfaction,"  he  remarked  grimly.  "I'll  blow  him  as  full 
of  holes  as  he'll  stick.  They  got  my  bay  team  and  six  hours  start;  but 
I'll  be  after  them  hot-footed  with  that  fractious  mare  of  mine,  and 
when  I  come  up  with  them  it  will  be  him  or  me. " 

"I  hope  you'll  not  do  anything  hasty,  Tucker,"  said  Stephen 
gravely. 

"Don't  you  worry  about  me,  Steve.  The  right's  on  my  side." 


5o  THE  LAN  DRAYS 

He  seemed  so  weak  despite  his  rage  and  brave  boastings,  and  he 
had  aged,  too,  in  that  single  night,  that  Stephen,  feeling  only  pity  for 
him,  rested  his  strong  hand  on  his  shoulder  with  a  kindly  pressure. 

"Come,  Tucker,  why  go  after  him  at  all  ?"  he  said. 

"Thank'ee  Steve,"  cried  the  tavernkeeper  in  a  husky  voice,  and 
his  bleary  eyes  sought  the  handsome  face  of  the  younger  man. 
"Thank'ee  —  but  you  can't  keep  me  back.  She's  my  wife,  she's 
skipped  out  with  another  man,  and  now  I'm  going  to  make  her  skip 
back,  and  I  reckon  she'll  do  quite  a  little  skipping  one  way  and 
another  before  this  affair's  settled,"  and  he  shook  his  head  omin- 
ously. 

Then  he  said: 

"Them  deeds  covering  the  transfers  of  that  land,  and  the  distil- 
lery, are  in  Jake's  hands.  He  can  get  'em  recorded.  It's  all  right  to 
leave  it  with  him  to  close  up  the  deal,  ain't  it,  boys  ?" 

"Yes,  certainly.  He  will  have  to  attend  to  it,"  said  Stephen. 

Jim  appeared  at  the  door.  "Well,  Tucker,  if  you  are  going,  look 
spry.  The  mare's  hooked  to  the  light  fix." 

Mr.  Tucker,  who  had  been  standing  by  the  window  with  his  head 
sunk  on  his  breast,  turned  quickly,  roused  by  his  words. 

"Thank'ee,  Jim,  I'm  ready.  You'll  look  after  things  until  I  get 
back  ?"  and  he  gathered  up  the  gaily-coloured  quilt  that  hid  the  horse 
pistols.  Jim  seemed  slightly  crestfallen. 

"Don't  I  go  too,  Tucker?"  he  asked.  "You  know  when  it  comes 
to  the  madam  you  ain't  no  match  for  her.  Don't  you  reckon  you'll 
want  me  ?" 

"I'll  attend  to  her.  You  do  as  you're  told."  said  the  old  man  with 
a  touch  of  unexpected  dignity.  He  crossed  the  room  to  where  the  Lan- 
drays  stood  with  Benson.  "Good-bye,  boys,  and  good  luck  to  you!" 
he  gave  a  tremulous  hand  to  each  in  turn.  "I'm  mighty  sorry  to  see 
you  go." 

"  And  we  are  sorry  to  see  you  in  this  trouble,"  said  Stephen. 

"I  trust  you'll  not  do  anything  hasty,"  urged  Benson. 

"Well,  I  won't  be  too  everlasting  slow,  Jacob,"  said  Tucker  grimly. 
Then  he  followed  Jim  from  the  room.  A  moment  later  they  heard  him 
issue  his  final  commands  to  his  stableman,  the  crack  of  a  whip,  the 
clatter  of  four  shod  hoofs  on  the  brick  pavement,  the  rattle  of  wheels, 
and  Mr.  Tucker,  his  hat  awry,  and  his  two  wisps  of  white  hair  stream- 
ing out  behind  his  ears  like  a  pair  of  cupid's  wings,  whirled  out  of  the 
inn-yard,  and  down  the  street,  the  fractious  mare  at  a  wild  gallop. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN  51 

The  three  men  looked  from  one  to  another  in  silence.  Stephen 
spoke  first. 

"Do  you  think  she's  gone  with  Gibbs  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  shouldn't  wonder,  there's  been  a  good  deal  of  talk,"  It  was  Ben- 
son who  answered  his  question. 

"We  should  not  have  allowed  him  to  start  off  after  them,"  said 
Stephen. 

"I  imagine  we  would  have  had  our  hands  full  if  we  had  tried  to 
stop  him,"  responded  Bushrod  with  a  shrug.  Here,  Jasper  Walsh 
entered  the  room. 

"Let  us  be  off,  Mr.  Landray,"  he  cried.  He  was  a  boyish-looking 
young  fellow,  with  a  refined  and  gentle  face,  that  was  now  working 
piteously  enough.  A  stranger  in  Benson,  fresh  from  an  eastern  col- 
lege, he  had  come  west  —  bringing  with  him  a  young  wife  —  to 
teach  school  and  in  his  leisure  time  study  law,  but  he  had 
decided  that  a  year  or  so  in  California  would  furnish  him  with 
the  means  to  carry  out  his  ambitions,  and  from  the  savings  of  his 
slender  earnings  he  had  purchased  a  few  shares  in  the  company. 
"They  are  waiting  for  us,  they  are  all  ready  —  can't  we  start  ?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes,  I  know,  Walsh,"  said  Stephen,  then  he  added,  "See 
here,  why  don't  you  throw  it  over  ?  I'll  see  that  your  interests 
are  well  looked  to.  Come,  be  sensible,  and  stay  here  with  your 
wife." 

"No,"  answered  the  boy  determinedly.  "It's  my  chance.  It's  best 
for  her,  and  it's  best  for  me  that  I  go,  and  I've  parted  from  her  and 
the  worst  is  over,"  his  lips  quivered.  "What's  keeping  us  ?"  he  asked 
anxiously. 

"Nothing,"  said  Stephen,  but  he  did  not  move.  Bushrod  laughed 
dismally. 

"Walsh  is  right,  let's  start.  I  don't  want  to  hang  about  here  until 
Anna's  awake,  and  sees  us  go  past  the  house." 

Stephen  looked  at  him  >n  wonder. 

"Until  Anna's  what  ?"  he  demanded  sharply. 

"Awake.  Thank  God,  she  was  fast  asleep  when  I  left  home." 

Stephen's  glance  dwelt  sadly  upon  his  brother  for  a  brief  instant, 
then  he  moved  to  the  door  and  they  passed  out  through  the  bar,  where 
Jim  had  put  out  the  lights  and  was  already  opening  the  heavy  wooden 
shutters. 

When  they  emerged  upon  the  square,  they  found  the  wind  had 


52  THE  LANDRAYS 

lulled.  The  rain  was  tailing  in  a  quiet  drizzle,  with  here  and  there  an 
occasional  snow-flake  that  melted  the  instant  it  touched  the  ground. 
Bushrod  and  Walsh  said  good-bye  to  the  lawyer,  and  took  their  places 
in  the  wagons,  while  Stephen  turned  back  for  a  last  word. 

"I'm  leaving  everything  in  your  care,  Jake,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  of 
stifled  emotion,  as  he  wrung  Benson's  hand. 

"I  understand,  Landray.  I'll  do  for  her  in  everyway  I  can." 

"  I  know  you  will.  God  bless  you,  and  good-bye." 

They  passed  down  the  silent  street  that  echoed  dismally  to  the 
beat  of  their  horses'  hoofs,  they  crossed  the  covered  bridge  and  be- 
gan the  long  ascent  of  Landray's  Hill.  As  they  neared  the  summit, 
the  vapours  lifted  from  the  valley  below  them,  and  the  first  long  level 
rays  of  the  sun  shot  across  it,  just  touching  the  woods  that  were  its 
furthest  boundary. 

Stephen,  who  was  driving  the  first  wagon,  leaned  far  out  from 
under  the  canvas  hood,  for  down  in  the  valley  he  saw  the  dark  bulk 
of  the  old  stone  mill;  then  the  farm-house  flanked  by  its  great  barns 
and  lesser  buildings,  came  into  view;  and,  last  of  all,  the  white  porch 
of  his  home,  and  on  the  porch  a  figure,  that  he  knew  had  been  waiting 
there  since  the  day  broke.  He  drew  a  handkerchief  from  his  pocket 
and  waved  it  frantically:  there  was  an  answering  flutter  of  white,  and 
then  a  turn  in  the  road  brought  the  leafless  woods  about  him,  and  he 
had  looked  his  last  upon  the  valley. 

As  the  sun  swept  higher  in  the  heavens,  and  as  the  day  advanced 
and  the  miles  grew  behind  them,  the  drooping  spirits  of  the  party 
seemed  to  revive.  Dunlevy  and  Bingham  whistled  or  sang  or  chaffed 
poor  Walsh  who  rode  in  their  wagon;  while  Bushrod  Landray  and 
Rogers  discussed  the  latest  news  from  California,  with  an  interest  and 
cheerfulness  that  had  been  but  temporarily  eclipsed. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

A'  Cincinnati,  a  dilapidated  wharf  boat  absorbed  the  wagons 
of  The  Benson  and  California  Mining  and  Trading  Com- 
pany, and  an  affable  shipping  agent,  after  dwelling  with  en- 
thusiasm on  the  fact  that  freights  were  steadily  advancing,  and  the 
oldest  river  men  unwilling  to  predict  their  ultimate  figure,  agreed 
to  furnish  transportation  for  the  party  on  the  "Caledonia,"  which 
was  due  to  arrive  some  time  the  following  day,  and  at  a  price  which 
represented  but  a  slight  advance  on  the  regular  western  rate  ;  in- 
deed, he  assured  Stephen  he  might  reasonably  consider  the  increase 
merely  nominal,  in  view  of  the  peculiar  and  extraordinary  advan- 
tages this  particular  boat  had  to  offer  in  the  way  of  safety,  speed,  and 
comfort. 

But  in  spite  of  the  ample  promises  of  this  individual,  Stephen 
found  he  had  purchased  a  very  limited  amount  of  space  indeed,  for 
the  steamer  was  crowded  when  they  boarded  it,  and  each  stop  it 
made  added  to  the  numbers  who  stamped  the  decks  when  the  weather 
permitted,  and  at  other  times  clustered  about  the  smoky  wood 
stoves  in  the  dingy  cabins. 

As  they  steamed  down  the  Ohio,  they  passed,  or  were  passed,  by 
other  boats,  each  crowded  with  its  adventurers.  They  entered  the 
Missouri,  and  on  its  banks  saw  the  camps  and  canvas-covered  wagons 
of  those  who  had  come  overland  to  join  in  the  epic  march  of  the  gold- 
seekers.  At  first,  it  was  two  or  three  wagons  —  further  along  the  two 
or  three  became  a  score  —  this  score  grew  to  fifty  —  the  fifty  to  a 
hundred  —  a  long,  slow-moving  monotonous  line. 

Late  one  afternoon  they  reached  Independence,  and  tied  up  to  the 
bank.  A  tall  black-bearded  man  of  thirty-eight  or  forty,  in  greasy 
buckskins,  had  established  himself  at  a  near-by  wood-pile,  from  which 
he  could  command  an  excellent  prospect  of  the  river  and  what  was 
passing  there.  He  had  kept  his  watch  from  dawn  until  dark  for  a  week 
or  more.  It  was  only  when  some  steamer  made  a  landing  in  his  vicinity 

53 


54  THE  LANDRAYS 

that  he  would  forsake  his  post;  then  he  would  hurry  along  the  bank, 
thrusting  his  vigorous  way  among  the  passengers,  eagerly  questioning 
from  whence  they  came.  During  those  intervals  when  there  were  no 
boats  arriving,  he  cultivated  a  measure  of  intimacy  with  the  proprietor 
of  the  wood-yard;  and  the  latter  had  hospitably  urged  him  to  make 
free  with  a  shelter  of  blankets  he  had  devised  in  the  rear  of  one  of  the 
wood  ranks.  But  his  impatience  had  increased  as  the  days  passed, 
and  the  good-nature  which  had  at  first  expressed  itself  in  ill-flavoured 
jests  at  the  expense  of  the  emigrants  seemed  to  leave  him;  this  was 
Basil  Landray.  He  saw  the  "Caledonia"  tie  up  to  the  shore;  and 
he  watched  her  passengers  as  they  made  their  way  to  land,  laden 
with  the  more  easily  portable  of  their  belongings;  suddenly,  however, 
he  uttered  an  exclamation  and  strode  down  the  bank. 

"If  your  name  ain't  Landray,  I'll  never  guess  again!"  he  said, 
when  he  had  made  his  way  to  where  Stephen  and  Bushrod  stood. 

"  Basil  ? "  cried  the  former,  "  Basil  Landray  ? " 

In  spite  of  certain  differences,  which  later  on  became  so  apparent 
that  they  seemed  to  destroy  all  family  resemblance,  the  cousins  were 
wonderfully  alike. 

"How  long  have  you  been  here  ?"  said  Stephen. 

"Not  above  a  fortnight.  I  counted  on  your  getting  here  sooner; 
but  you're  full  early;  there's  no  grass  to  speak  of  yet,  and  you  can't 
start  a  hoof  across  the  plains  until  that  gets  up." 

In  a  covert,  secret  fashion  of  his  own  he  was  taking  careful  stock  of 
the  brothers.  When  Stephen's  letter  had  been  put  into  his  hands  at 
Council  Bluffs  the  previous  fall,  it  had  required  an  effort  of  memory 
on  his  part  to  determine  who  this  Stephen  Landray  was,  and  just 
how  they  were  related.  Of  the  writer's  circumstances  he  had  known 
absolutely  nothing,  and  of  these  the  letter  gave  no  hint;  this  was  a 
point  upon  which  he  had  felt  certain  misgivings,  but  the  very  appear- 
ance of  the  brothers  was  in  itself  reassuring.  He  noted,  for  nothing 
was  lost  on  him,  that  the  others  of  the  party  treated  them  with  a 
marked  respect,  which  he  instantly  attributed  to  superiority  of  for- 
tune, that  to  him  being  the  basis  of  all  social  differences. 

"Well,  now;"  he  cried,  with  boisterous  heartiness,  "and  to  think 
I  should  have  known  the  pair  of  you  the  minute  I  clapped  eyes  on 
you!  Singular,  ain't  it?" 

"No,"  said  Stephen,  surveying  the  fine  muscular  figure  of  the  fur 
trader  with  frank  approval.  "No,  it  is  not  so  singular  after  all;  for  we 
do  look  alike." 


CHAPTER  EIGHT  55 

"Aye,  with  this  off,"  running  his  fingers  through  his  bushy  beard. 
"As  like  as  three  peas  in  a  pod." 

Their  wagons,  which  were  among  the  last  loaded  on  the  "Cale- 
donia," and  consequently  among  the  first  to  be  put  ashore,  were  soon 
drawn  up  the  bank;  and  Dunlevy,  with  Bingham  and  Walsh  busied 
themselves  settling  the  camp. 

"Now,"  said  Basil,  "What  are  your  plans  ?" 

The  Landrays  had  drawn  apart  from  the  others,  and  had  thrown 
themselves  down  on  the  short  turf  which  was  already  specked  with 
flowers.  They  told  him  first  of  the  return  of  Rogers,  and  of  the 
formation  of  the  company. 

"Yonder  tall  fellow  ?"  nodding  in  the  direction  of  the  Californian. 

"Yes." 

Basil  grinned.  "You  must  have  had  right  smart  faith,"  he  said. 
"I  should  judge  you'd  have  thought  twice  before  trusting  yourself  to 
him." 

"We  did."  said  Stephen.  "It  was  then  I  thought  of  you." 

"Well,  if  he  drops  off,  I  reckon  I  can  fill  his  shoes." 

"God  forbid  that  he  should  drop  off!"  cried  Stephen  quickly.  "I 
want  to  see  him  successful.  He's  a  tragic  and  pathetic  figure,  with  his 
hope  and  patience." 

Basil  stared  at  him  blankly,  "Oh!  I  reckon  he'll  pull  through,"  he 
said  at  length. 

They  were  soon  absorbed  in  the  discussion  of  their  plans.  They 
kept  nothing  back  from  the  fur  trader,  for  was  he  not  a  Landray  ? 
They  told  him  how  much  was  invested  in  the  enterprise,  what  had 
been  spent  in  equipment,  and  what  remained  in  cash  in  hand,  which 
they  intended  to  invest  when  they  should  reach  California,  together 
with  five  thousand  dollars  of  their  own.  His  dark  eyes  sparkled,  and 
the  enthusiasm  which  worked  up  out  of  the  sullen  depths  of  his  na- 
ture quite  mastered  him.  He  felt  his  heart  warm  toward  these  pros- 
perous kinsmen  of  his. 

"Well,  freeze  on  to  your  money,"  then  he  laughed  as  he  added,  "I 
didn't  know  any  of  the  Landrays  could  round  up  so  much.  I  suppose 
you  sold  clean  out  to  do  it  ?" 

"Not  quite,"  said  Bushrod  a  little  stiffly,  and  he  glanced  quickly  at 
his  brother;  but  Stephen  avoided  meeting  his  eye,  for  somehow  he 
felt  responsible  for  Basil,  and  Basil,  he  feared,  was  not  quite  all  he 
had  expected. 

"Well,  it's  a  lot  of  monpy,"  said  the  fur  trader,  "a  lot  of  money. 


56  THE  LANDRAYS 

I've  known  one  Landray  who  ain't  seen  so  much  in  many  a  long  day, 
how  do  you  plan  to  lay  it  out  ? " 

"If  possible,  in  mining  properties,"  said  Stephen. 

"And  lose  every  doggone  cent  of  it,  like  enough.  No  sir,  I'd  put  it  in 
something  surer." 

They  looked  at  him  in  mute  surprise.  What  could  be  surer  ? 

He  explained. 

"  Every  one's  crazy  to  dig,  and  while  they  dig  they're  going  to  be 
hungry  —  they're  going  to  be  mortal  thirsty  too.  Start  a  store,  or, 
better  still,  start  a  tavern;  but  keep  your  hands  clean." 

"We  intend  to,"  said  Stephen  drily.  The  fur  trader  swore  a  mighty 
oath. 

"The  crowd  here's  one  thing,  but  what  will  be  left  of  it  after  it 
crosses  the  plains  will  be  something  else.  The  ^oft-headed  and  the 
soft-hearted  will  turn  back,  but  a  many  a  one  '11  go  through,  and  if 
money  comes  easy  it  will  go  easy.  They'll  be  a  long  ways  from  home, 
most  of  'em  will  forget  they  ever  had  homes;  I've  seen  how  that 
works  in  the  fur  country.  Drink  and  cards  will  do  for  'em:  I've  seen 
'em  gamble  their  last  dollar  away  —  their  horses  —  their  Indian 
women  —  the  shirts  off  their  backs  —  and  once  the  scalps  off  their 
own  heads,  it's  the  traders  and  gamblers  makes  the  money."  he 
broke  off  abruptly  with  a  light  laugh.  "You'll  figure  it  out  to  suit 
yourselves,  I  reckon,  but  there'll  be  other  ways  of  getting  gold  than 
digging  for  it." 

His  unlucky  candour  acted  like  a  wet  blanket  on  the  brothers.  The 
manner  of  each  became  stiff,  their  tone  formal;  their  enthusiasm 
changed  to  a  forced  and  tepid  warmth;  but  apparently  Basil  did  not 
notice  this;  relaxed  and  at  ease  in  his  greasy  buckskins,  and  with  a 
short  black  pipe  between  his  teeth,  he  lounged  on  the  soft  flower- 
specked  turf,  his  mind  filled  with  pleasant  fancies. 

"We'll  pick  up  our  teams  to-morrow;"  he  said.  "Mules  cost  a  heap 
more  than  cattle,  but  mules  are  what  you  want." 

"We  heard  at  St.  Louis  that  the  cholera  was  here,  and  at  St.  Jos- 
eph," said  Bushrod. 

"I  reckon  what  you  heard  was  near  about  so.  That's  one  reason 
why  we  want  to  pull  out  of  here  as  soon  as  we  can.  When  the  first  man 
died,  there  was  a  right  lively  stampede."  he  sucked  at  his  pipe  in  si- 
lence for  a  moment.  "  I  ain't  partial  to  cholera  myself,"  he  added. 

Then  he  explained  with  some  show  of  embarrassment  that  his 
reckoning  at  the  tavern  where  he  had  lodged  since  his  arrival  in  In- 


CHAPTER  EIGHT  57 

dependence,  was  still  unpaid,  and  that  he  was  looking  to  the  brothers 
to  settle  it  for  him. 

As  evening  fell,  the  open  spaces  about  the  town,  common  and  waste, 
smoked  with  the  fires  of  a  thousand  camps.  The  rolling  upland  rioted 
with  feverish  life,  or  vibrated  with  a  boisterous  cheerfulness,  for  hope 
was  everywhere.  Numberless  white-topped  wagons  gleamed  opaquely 
in  the  gathering  darkness;  black  figures  moved  restlessly  to  and  fro 
about  the  fires;  there  was  the  continual  lowing  of  oxen;  now  a  noisy 
chorus  of  men's  voices  could  be  heard;  then  nearer  at  hand  a  clear 
tenor  voice  took  up  the  words. 

"/  soon  shall  be  in  'Frisco, 

And  then  I'll  look  around, 
And  when  I  see  the  gold  lumps  there, 

I'll  pick  'em  off  the  ground. 
I'll  scrape  the  mountains  clean,  my  boys, 

I'll  drain  the  rivers  dry, 
A  pocket  full  of  rocks  bring  home, 

So,  brothers,  don't  you  cry!" 

A  hundred  men  roared  out  the  refrain: 

"Obt  California, 

That's  the  land  for  me  / 
I'm  bound  for  San  Francisco, 

With  my  wash-bowl  on  my  knee/" 

The  fur  trader  grinned  and  nodded  over  his  tin  cup  of  steaming 
coffee 

"Some  of  'em  will  do  their  singing  out  the  other  side  of  their 
mouths  before  they  finish  the  first  five  hundred  miles;  eh,  California  ?" 

"I  reckon  so,"  said  Rogers,  sententiously. 

"Stephen,  here,  tells  me  you've  crossed  the  mountains  ?" 

Again  Rogers  contented  himself  with  a  brief  answer  in  the  affirmative. 

"Ever  been  in  the  fur  trade  ?"  asked  Basil. 

"No." 

"Oh,  aye,  just  knocking  about  maybe :" 

"Trying  mighty  hard  to  make  a  living,"  corrected  Rogers  shortly. 

"That's  easy  to  pick  up." 

"The  kind  I  wanted  wa'n't." 

"What  kind  were  you  looking  for?"  inquired  Basil. 

"Something  a  mighty  sight  different  from  what  I  got  out  of  sol- 
diering and  ranching,"  responded  Rogers. 


58  THE  LANDRAYS 

The  fur  trader  devoted  a  moment  to  a  close  scrutiny  of  the  Cali- 
fornian. 

"It  don't  seem  to  have  agreed  with  you  specially  well,  for  a  fact," 
he  commented  drily. 

"Come,  Basil,"  said  Stephen,  "if  you  are  ready,  we'd  better  go 
into  town  before  it  gets  any  later." 

They  found  the  town  alive  with  the  unwonted  traffic  of  that  sea- 
son. Before  the  warehouses  and  stores,  which  for  years  past  had 
outfitted  the  Santa  Fe  traders  and  the  great  fur  companies, 
freight  wagons  from  the  river  landings  or  from  St.  Louis  were  still 
discharging  their  loads.  There  were  other  wagons  from  the  country 
about,  each  drawn  by  its  six  or  eight  oxen  or  mules,  and  laden  with 
flour,  pork,  and  farm  produce;  and  from  the  distant  trading  posts 
were  still  other  wagons,  loaded  with  bales  of  beaver  and  buffalo 
robes.  The  teams  blocked  the  street,  and  their  drivers  swore  hoarsely 
at  each  other;  and  the  crowds  showered  them  with  advice. 

In  the  stores  with  their  barbaric  display  of  coloured  cloths,  blan- 
kets, and  beads,  and  their  stacks  of  rifles,  an  army  might  have  been 
equipped  and  armed.  In  and  out  the  crowds  came  and  went,  buying 
and  trading  with  a  feverish  haste.  In  the  stock-yards  —  which  seemed 
to  be  everywhere  —  by  lantern  light,  men  bargained  for  teams. 
There  was  the  slow  drawl  of  the  Southerner;  the  nasal  twang  of  the 
Yankee;  the  French  of  dark-skinned  Canadian  voyagers;  the  Span- 
ish of  swarthy  Mexican  packers;  the  frank  and  loudly  expressed 
wonder  of  the  men  of  the  frontier,  teamsters,  and  trappers,  at  the 
sudden  invasion  of  their  trading  centre. 

Basil's  reckoning  at  the  tavern  was  settled,  and  the  fur  trader 
shouldered  his  pack  and  rifle,  and  they  again  sought  the  street. 

"We'll  go  back  to  camp  by  a  nearer  way,"  said  he,  and  he  led 
them  down  a  narrow  alley.  Here  a  rapidly  driven  wagon  caused 
them  to  draw  to  one  side.  A  negro  was  driving  the  team  of  mules, 
and  following  him  came  a  two-wheeled  cart.  In  it  were  two  men, 
one  of  whom  held  a  lantern  in  his  lap.  In  the  light  it  gave  they  could 
see  that  the  handles  of  a  pick  and  shovel  protruded  from  between 
his  knees.  His  companion  rocked  drunkenly  at  his  side. 

Basil  started  back  with  an  oath. 

"The  cholera!  "he  cried. 

They  were  bearing  a  body  to  a  grave  on  the  plains,  beyond  the 
town  and  the  camps  of  the  gold  reekers. 


CHAPTER  NINE 

MR.  TUCKER  took  the  south  road  out  of  Benson,  his  belief 
being  that  the  runaways  would  drive  across  the  State  to 
Indiana.  Events  proved  him  so  far  right  in  this  conjecture 
that  he  dined  at  the  tavern  where  they  had  breakfasted,  and  supped 
where  they  had  dined.  Then,  since  they  had  gone  on  presumedly  in 
the  direction  of  Columbus,  he  mounted  to  his  seat  again  and  urged 
the  fractious  mare  forward  at  the  best  pace  which  the  condition  of 
the  roads  rendered  safe.  He  himself  was  now  on  the  verge  of  ex- 
haustion; and  his  desire  to  be  revenged  on  the  fugitives,  alone  sus- 
tained him;  it  was  nothing  that  he  ached  in  every  bone  and  muscle, 
or  that  his  old  joints  had  stiffened  so  that  as  he  swung  forward  over 
the  rutted  road,  or  splashed  through  mud-holes,  he  was  tossed  and 
jolted  from  side  to  side  quite  lacking  the  power  to  protect  or  save 
himself. 

The  bitter  sense  of  shame  never  left  him;  and  with  each  weary 
mile  the  wish  to  be  avenged  for  the  monstrous  evil  he  was  suffering 
grew  in  his  sodden  brain.  Yet  as  darkness  closed  about  him,  between 
the  paroxysms  of  his  rage,  he  thought  miserably  enough  of  his  own 
comfortable  tavern  bar,  filled  as  he  knew  it  must  be  with  the  pleasant 
odour  of  tobacco  smoke  —  that  soft  familiar  haze  through  which 
for  thirty  years  he  had  looked  each  night.  He  thought  of  the  long 
rows  of  bottles  on  the  shelves  back  of  the  deal  bar,  and  of  what  they 
held;  of  the  open  fireplace  with  its  warmth  and  cheer,  which  Jim 
had  heaped  with  great  logs.  There  was  something  inspiring  and  of 
high  domestic  virtue  even  in  the  reek  of  the  sperm  oil  in  the  brass 
lamps  ;  indeed,  there  was  not  a  single  memory  which  his  mind 
fed  upon,  that  he  would  have  had  changed  in  the  minutest  par- 
ticular, or  that  did  not  add  to  the  wretchedness  of  his  present 
plight. 

He  thought  of  the  excellent  and  thirsty  company  that  was  gather- 
ing there,  and  the  best  company  was  always  thirsty.  He  thought 

59 


60  THE  LANDRAYS 

tenderly  of  the  little  cherished  peculiarities  of  each  of  his  cronies;  of 
Mr.  Harden  the  undertaker,  and  the  accurate  information  he  was 
always  ready  to  impart  touching  the  ravages  of  sickness  and  death  in 
the  county;  of  Mayor  Kirby,  and  Squire  Riley,  and  the  argument  on 
.  Certain  mooted  points  of  constitutional  law  they  had  been  carrying 
on  almost  nightly,  for  more  years  than  he  could  remember;  and  which 
had  become  so  intricate  that  these  distinguished  opponents  were  as 
often  as  not  astonished  to  find  themselves  on  the  wrong  side  of  the 
question,  each  upholding  the  opinions  of  the  other  with  a  most 
embarrassing  force  and  logic;  he  thought  of  Mr.  Bendy,  the  post- 
master, and  his  interesting  political  reminiscences,  the  chiefest  gem 
being  the  narrative  of  his  meeting  with  Andrew  Jackson,  and  the 
wealth  of  whose  impressions  concerning  that  remarkable  man  — 
which  might  be  said  to  have  compounded  themselves  most  industri- 
ously —  now  bore  no  relation  whatever  to  the  actual  time  which  the 
victor  of  New  Orleans  had  devoted  to  Mr.  Bently's  case,  gener- 
ally supposed  to  have  been  the  Benson  post-office.  He  thought  of 
Colonel  Sharp,  stately  but  condescending,  and  his  agreeable  conver- 
sation embellished  as  it  was  by  classical  quotations,  which  never 
failed  to  carry  a  sense  of  conviction  and  fullness  to  the  mental  sto- 
mach: of  the  British  bullet  he  had  brought  away  from  the  disastrous 
fight  at  Fallen  Timbers,  but  which  no  surgeon's  probe  had  ever  been 
able  to  locate,  and  concerning  the  outrageous  behaviour  of  which 
Mr.  Tucker  was  expected  to  show  daily  the  keenest  interest,  since 
the  most  subtle  change  in  the  weather,  a  rise  or  fall  in  the  tempera- 
ture, a  shift  in  the  wind,  affected  this  piece  of  lead  in  the  most  singu- 
lar manner,  enabling  it,  so  the  colonel  stoutly  averred,  to  travel 
up  and  down  his  leg  between  the  knee  and  thigh  quite  at  its  own 
pleasure,  but  much  to  his  discomfort. 

Probably  they  were  all  at  the  tavern  even  now;  and  here  was  he, 
wet  and  wretched,  with  a  cold  wind  and  a  yet  colder  rain  beating 
in  his  face,  miles  and  miles  away! 

Then  at  last,  out  of  the  Darkness  and  mist  and  the  falling  rain, 
down  the  waste  of  muddy  roads,  and  far  across  the  desolate  fields, 
one  by  one  the  lights  of  the  capitol  city  blinked  at  him.  He  drove  up 
High  Street,  past  the  Niel  House,  for  he  was  prejudiced  against  so 
pretentious  an  establishment;  and  turning  down  a  side  street  drew 
up  in  front  of  a  small  frame  building,  which  a  creaking  sign  an- 
nounced to  be  Roebuck's  Tavern. 

Roebuck  was  an  old  friend,  though  they  had  not  met  in  years; 


CHAPTER  NINE  61 

and  it  was  Roebuck  himself,  who,  hearing  the  rattle  of  wheels  before 
his  door,  hurried  out  from  the  bar,  lantern  in  hand,  to  bid  his  guest 
welcome.  He  was  a  burly  figure  of  a  man,  florid  of  face,  but  bland 
and  smiling. 

"John,"  cried  Mr.  Tucker  weakly,  "John,  I  wonder  if  you'll 
know  me!" 

"Know  you  ?"  swinging  up  the  lantern.  "Know you  ?"  scrutiniz- 
ing doubtfully  the  limp  figure  in  the  buggy.  "Why,  God  bless  me  — 
it's  Tucker,  of  the  Red  Brick  at  Benson!" 

He  seized  Tucker's  cold  ringers  in  a  friendly  grasp,  and  fell  to 
bawling  for  his  hostler.  When  the  latter  appeared,  he  assisted  his 
friend  to  alight,  and  bore  him  indoors. 

"Why,  man,  you're  wet  to  the  skin!"  he  cried.  "You'll  be  after 
having  something  to  eat,  a  drop  to  drink,  and  a  pipe." 

"A  dish  of  licker  right  now,  if  you  please,  John,"  said  Tucker, 
turning  his  eyes  in  the  direction  of  the  bar;  and  though  he  doubted 
if  Roebuck  would  have  anything  to  tell  him,  he  made  his  inquiries 
concerning  the  runaways.  Roebuck  nodded. 

"They  stopped  here  for  supper.  Gibbs  I  knowed  by  sight,  but  his 
lady  was  a  stranger  to  me." 

"Where  are  they  now  ?"  cried  Tucker  fiercely.  "Here  ?" 

"Nay,  man,  they  only  stopped  for  supper,  as  I  told  you.  When 
they  were  leaving  they  asked  me  about  the  road  to  Washington  in 
Fayette  County;  but  they'll  have  to  stop  for  the  night  on  the  way; 
their  team  wa'n't  good  for  ten  miles  more  when  they  drove  away 
from  here." 

Mr.  Tucker  groaned  aloud.  "I'd  keep  on  after  them,  but  I  ain't 
fit,  John,"  he  said. 

"You  do  look  beat,"  agreed  his  friend. 

"I  been  after  them  since  early  morning,"  said  Tucker. 

"Your  daughter,  maybe  ?" 

"My  wife,"  answered  Tucker  briefly. 

"You  don't  tell  me!"  cried  Roebuck.  "Let's  see,  it  was  your  first 
wife  I  knowed,  wa'n't  it  ?" 

"My  second,"  said  Tucker.  "Sarah." 

"So  it  was.  I  mind  now  that  was  her  name." 

"A  good  woman,"  said  Tucker,  and  said  no  more. 

Presently,  however,  when  he  had  eaten,  and  his  eating  included 
much  drinking,  they  established  themselves  for  privacy's  sake  in 
the  tavern  parlour  near  a  small  table,  where  as  the  night  wore  on, 


62  THE  LANDRAYS 

there  was  a  steady  accumulation  of  empty  bottles,  "Dead  soldiers," 
Roebuck  called  them. 

It  was  then  that  Tucker  poured  the  narrative  of  his  wrongs  into 
the  listening  ear  of  his  ancient  friend. 

"I  mind  now  I  heard  of  your  second  wife's  death,  and  that  you'd 
married  again,"  said  Roebuck,  when  he  had  finished. 

"It  was  once  too  often,  John,"  said  Tucker  sadly.  "I  know  it  now 
though  I  didn't  think  so  then.  She  was  a  tidy-looking  girl  when  I 
carried  her  home  to  the  Red  Brick." 

"She's  an  uncommon  fine  looker  yet,"  Roebuck  assured  him. 

"She  is,"  agreed  Tucker.  "I  seen  her  the  first  time  at  her  father's 
farm,  I'd  gone  there  to  buy  grain.  Only  to  buy  grain,  mind  you; 
I  had  no  more  idea  of  marrying  again  than  nothing  at  all;  but  being 
married  one?  makes  a  man  bold,  and  I  allow  being  married  twice 
makes  him  downright  reckless;  so  while  old  Tom  Gough,  her 
father  — 

"I  knowed  him,"  said  Roebuck,  interrupting  him.  "One  eye  miss- 
ing," he  added,  wishing  to  establish  Mr.  Cough's  identity  beyond 
peradventure. 

"Fourth  of  July,"  said  Tucker.  "Breach  of  his  rifle  blowed  out." 

"That's  him,"  said  Roebuck  nodding.  "Go  on  —  old  Tom 
Gough  —  " 

"Went  down  to  the  barn  to  hook  up,"  said  Tucker,  resuming  his 
narrative,  "you  see  he  wanted  to  show  me  his  crops,  I  was  intending 
buying  in  the  field,  and  he  left  me  setting  on  his  front  porch  where  I 
could  see  her  through  the  hall  whisking  about  helping  her  mother  at 
the  back  of  the  house.  Watching  her  I  got  so  lonely  that  presently 
I  called  to  her  to  come  out  where  I  was,  and  she  called  back  that 
there  was  more  between  us  than  the  house.  'More  than  the  house 
between  us,'  says  I,' perhaps  you  mean  a  man.'  'Not  a  man,'  says 
she,  'but  I  don't  know  as  I  fancy  your  looks,  Mr.  Tucker.'  'The  lik- 
ing of  looks,'  says  I,  *  is  a  matter  of  habit.  Give  me  time  and  perhaps 
you'll  like  such  looks  as  I  have  well  enough.'  That,"  added  Mr. 
Tucker  savagely,  "was  the  beginning." 

"And  you  married  her,"  said  Roebuck. 

"Damn  her,  I  did,"  said  Tucker. 

"Trouble  from  the  start  ?"  asked  Roebuck. 

"No,  we  got  along  satisfactory,  you  might  say,  with  now  and  then 
a  spat  as  is  to  be  expected,  and  which  signifies  little  enough." 

"Little  enough  surely,"  agreed  Roebuck. 


CHAPTER  NINE  63 

"And  then  along  came  this  scalawag  Gibbs." 

"One  man's  as  good  as  another  until  the  other  heaves  into  sight, 
I've  noticed  that,"  observed  Roebuck. 

"Exactly,"  said  Tucker  moodily. 

Mr.  Tucker  left  Columbus  at  dawn  the  next  day,  and  in  a  pouring 
rain,  which  rendered  the  roads  all  but  impassible. 

The  runaways  kept  their  lead  of  him,  and  again  he  dined  where 
they  had  breakfasted  and  supped  where  they  had  dined.  This  brought 
him  to  Washington.  He  followed  them  to  Leesburg,  almost  due  south, 
and  he  feared  they  were  directing  their  course  to  some  river  point. 
At  Leesburg,  however,  they  turned  north  again  taking  the  Wilming- 
ton Pike.  He  was  now  convinced  that  Gibbs  had  in  mind  reaching 
some  station  on  the  Little  Miama  railroad,  and  felt  that  if  he  was  to 
overtake  them  he  must  do  so  that  day. 

Just  beyond  Wilmington  where  they  had  stopped  at  a  cross-road 
blacksmith  shop,  the  runaways  caught  their  first  sight  of  Mr. 
Tucker,  who  like  a  battered  fate,  toiled  into  view.  They  had  scarcely 
reckoned  on  the  old  tavernkeeper  showing  such  tenacity  of  purpose; 
indeed,  he  was  within  a  hundred  yards  of  them,  when  Gibbs  hap- 
pening to  glance  back  up  the  road,  descried  the  fractious  mare, 
urged  on  by  the  injured  husband,  charging  down  upon  them,  and  ac 
a  speed,  which  had  this  backward  glance  of  his  been  delayed  another 
moment  would  have  brought  the  chase  to  a  conclusion  of  some  sort 
then  and  there.  With  a  muttered  oath  he  tossed  a  handful  of  change 
to  the  smith  who  had  just  replaced  the  shoe  one  of  the  bays  had  cast, 
and  lashed  his  horses  with  the  whip.  Yet  prompt  as  their  flight  was, 
he  heard  Tucker  call,  bidding  him  stop. 

First  the  mare  gained  slowly  inch  by  inch.  Then  the  bays  worked 
ahead.  But  they  in  their  turn  lost  ground  and  the  mare  gained  on  them 
once  more,  until  Mr.  Tucker's  voice  could  be  heard  again.  He  was 
calling  to  them  to  stop  or  take  the  consequences;  but  they  did  not 
stop  and  there  were  no  consequences;  for  the  bays  quickly  recov- 
ered their  lead. 

Gibbs  stood  in  no  actual  fear  of  the  old  tavernkeeper,  but  he  felt 
that  under  the  circumstances  a  meeting  with  him  would  have  its 
disagreeable  features;  and  to  do  him  justice,  he  was  not  lacking  in 
the  wish  to  spare  the  woman  at  his  side  the  distress  of  such  an 
interview. 

The  bays  now  drew  steadily  ahead,  and  Tucker  dropped  back 
until  a  good  quarter  of  a  mile  separated  him  from  the  pair  in  the 


64  THE  LANDRAYS 

buggy;  this  grew  to  half  a  mile  —  three-quarters  —  though  he  plied 
the  whip  with  desperate  energy. 

Suddenly  he  was  surprised  to  see  the  bays  slow  down  to  a  walk, 
but  a  moment  later  he  realized  what  the  difficulty  was.  They  were 
approaching  a  ford.  He  had  already  experienced  both  difficulty  and 
danger  in  fording  swollen  streams;  perhaps  this  one  would  force  the 
runaways  to  turn  and  face  him.  He  slipped  the  quilt  from  about  the 
pistols  with  one  hand  while  he  guided  his  horse  with  the  other,  for 
he  had  caught  the  glint  of  the  angry  current  where  it  ran  level  with 
the  bank,  sending  a  placid  stretch  of  dirty  yellow  water  down  the 
road  to  meet  the  fugitives.  An  instant  later  the  bays  splashed  into 
this. 

Gibbs  drew  in  his  horses.  He  had  no  intention  of  attempting  the 
ford. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said  to  his  companion,  "but  we  shall  have  to 
meet  him  here,  the  ford  is  not  safe." 

Tucker  saw  the  bays  come  to  a  stand,  and  shaking  with  excite- 
ment and  rage,  snatched  up  one  of  the  pistols  and  sought  to  cock  it; 
but  his  fingers  were  numb  with  cold,  the  lock  rusted  and  stiff,  and 
he  could  not  start  the  hammer.  He  put  the  reins  between  his  knees, 
and  took  both  hands  to  the  task.  The  hammer  rose  slowly  from  the 
cap.  Then  suddenly  his  fingers  seemed  to  lose  all  power  and  strength, 
the  hammer  fell,  the  piece  exploded. 

When  the  smoke  that  for  a  moment  enveloped  him  cleared  away, 
he  saw  that  Gibbs  had  changed  his  mind  about  waiting  for  him  to 
come  up.  The  bays  were  struggling  in  midstream,  and  when  he 
reached  the  ford  were  just  emerging  on  the  other  bank.  He  reined 
in  his  horse  and  considered.  The  stream  had  an  ugly  look.  It  was 
quite  narrow,  however,  and  he  could  see  plainly  where  the  wheels 
of  the  buggy  had  left  their  impress  on  the  soft  bank  opposite.  But 
his  fury  got  the  better  of  a  constitutional  timidity  that  usually  turned 
him  back  from  any  hazardous  undertaking.  He  touched  the  mare 
sharply  with  the  whip;  she  started  forward;  and  then  as  she  felt  the 
water  deepen  about  her,  flung  back.  He  jerked  her  round  savagely, 
and  she  plunged  forward  once  more;  but  when  she  felt  the  force  of 
the  current,  veered  sharply,  overturning  the  buggy.  Tucker  was 
pitched  headlong  from  his  seat.  He  gained  a  footing,  but  the  water 
was  waist  deep,  and  the  current  instantly  twisted  his  feet  from  under 
him,  and  he  was  rolled  over  and  over  like  a  cork.  To  have  extricated 
himself  would  have  been  an  easy  task  for  a  strong  swimmer;  but 


CHAPTER  NINE  65 

Mr.  Tucker  was  not  a  strong  swimmer.  The  current  was  sweeping 
him  toward  the  opposite  shore,  and  perhaps  safety;  but  he  was  en- 
tirely  possessed  by  the  confused  idea  that  he  must  recover  his  horse, 
which,  rid  of  its  master  had  kicked  itself  free  of  buggy  2nd  harness, 
and  was  now  galloping  down  the  road  toward  Wilmington. 

He  put  his  might  against  the  current's  might.  It  swept  him  further 
and  further  away  from  the  ford.  Splinters  and  fragments  of  the 
wrecked  buggy  floated  after  him.  He  gave  up  all  idea  of  regaining 
the  Wilmington  shore.  He  wondered  desperately  if  Gibbs  had  not 
seen  the  accident,  and  if  he  would  let  him  go  to  his  death  in  that  flood 
of  rushing  muddy  water  without  an  effort  to  save  him;  but  Gibbs 
had  passed  about  a  turn  in  the  road,  and  knew  nothing  of  the  trag- 
edy that  was  being  enacted  so  close  at  hand. 

He  snatched  at  the  drooping  boughs  of  willows  and  elms  where 
they  trailed  about  him  in  the  water,  but  though  his  fingers  touched 
them  again  and  again,  he  lacked  the  power  to  retain  his  hold  upon 
them.  The  cold  was  numbing  him;  his  arms  and  legs  had  the  weight 
of  lead.  Once  he  sank  —  then  his  dripping  bald  head,  white  scared 
face,  and  starting  eyes  appeared,  and  the  fight  for  life  went  on. 
Twice  he  sank  —  and  again  he  came  to  the  surface,  choking,  stran- 
gling, his  old  face  purple.  A  third  time  he  sank  —  but  this  time  he 
did  not  reappear. 


CHAPTER  TEN 

THE  weeks  that  followed  Stephen's  departure  held  for  Virginia 
Landray  the  misery  of  a  first  separation.  It  was  the  uprooting 
of  all  she  had  counted  on  as  most  secure  and  abiding.  That 
thousands  of  other  men  had  left  their  homes  on  the  same  errand 
meant  nothing  to  her,  for  it  was  not  in  her  nature  to  generalize. 

Her  one  comfort  was  his  letters,  which  reached  her  at  short  and 
reasonably  regular  intervals.  He  was  all  buoyancy  and  hope;  he 
seemed  to  think  only  of  the  success  in  store  for  them;  and  he  so 
dwelt  upon  this  need  of  money,  a  need  he  magnified  to  himself 
and  to  her,  that  it  was  not  strange  she  ended  by  having  a  wholly 
wrong  and  exaggerated  idea  of  the  condition  of  the  family  fortunes. 

"He  is  doing  it  all  for  me,"  she  told  herself  with  quivering  lips, 
"and  that  only  makes  it  the  more  wicked  and  monstrous!  He  has 
left  his  home  for  my  sake,  becauses  he  wishes  to  give  me  every 
comfort  and  luxury;  as  if  I  cared  for  anything —  but  him!" 

Inspired  by  this  thought,  she  regulated  her  personal  expenditures 
with  an  eye  to  the  most  rigid  economy.  These  economies  of  hers 
threatened  to  become  a  scandal  and  a  reproach  to  Anna,  Bushrod's 
wife,  who,  however  much  she  regretted  her  husband's  absence, 
refused  to  believe  that  any  sacrifice  could  be  made  even  tributary  to 
her  comfort,  or  could  in  any  way  lighten  the  sorrow  and  apprehension, 
she  declared  she  was  knowing  for  the  first  time  in  her  married  life. 

But  Virginia,  whose  faith  was  rather  less  than  her  affection  for 
this  cheerful  sufferer,  determined  to  propose  to  her  that  they  live 
together  at  the  farm,  and  thus  save  the  expense  of  one  household 
She  planned  it  all  in  detail.  Anna  could  have  the  big  front  room  over 
the  parlour  with  the  smaller  one  adjoining  that  looked  out  upon  the 
west  meadow.  It  would  do  admirably  as  a  nursery  for  little  Stephen. 
She  grew  quite  excited  over  this  project,  and  was  on  the  point  of 
driving  into  town  to  see  Anna,  when  Anna  herself  in  all  the  ingen- 
ious gaiety  of  new  spring  finery,  drove  into  the  yard. 

66 


CHAPTER  TEN  67 

She  swept  up  the  steps  to  Virginia,  who  had  hurried  to  the  door 
to  receive  her,  adjusting  her  bonnet  with  one  neatly  gloved  hand, 
and  gathering  up  her  skirts  out  of  the  way  with  the  other;  her  small 
person  radiant  with  grace  and  charm. 

She  seemed  to  be  thrilling  with  some  pleasurable  excitement;  and 
Virginia  immediately  thought  it  must  be  a  letter  from  Bushrod. 

"Have  you  heard  about  Mr.  Tucker?"  she  asked  quite  breath- 
lessly. 

"What  about  Mr.  Tucker?"  said  Virginia  disappointed. 

"He's  dead  —  drowned  —  my  dear!  I  hurried  out  to  tell  you,  for 
I  knew  you  would  be  interested.  One  always  is,  in  these  dreadful 
shocking  tragedies." 

"Dead!  Drowned!"  cried  Virginia  in  horror. 

"Yes,  my  dear,  drowned!"  said  Anna,  with  a  small  air  of  triumph. 

"Oh!"  cried  Virginia;  and  added,  "Poor,  poor  old  man!" 

"He  was  following  his  wife  and  that  dreadful  Captain  Gibbs  — 
it's  quite  settled  now  that  she  ran  off  with  him;  he  tracked  them 
half  across  the  state,  it  seems." 

"But  how  did  he  lose  his  life?"  asked  Virginia. 

"It  seems  he  attempted  to  ford  a  dangerously  swollen  stream 
and  was  swept  away;  no  one  has  the  full  particulars  yet,  but  I  saw 
Mr.  Benson,  and  he  says  there  is  no  doubt  but  that  Mr.  Tucker  is 
dead." 

"Poor  old  man!"  repeated  Virginia  pityingly. 

"Well!"  said  Anna,  "Captain  Gibbs  will  never  dare  to  show  his 
face  here  again.  They  say  they  will  tar  and  feather  him  if  he  does; 
and  I  think  myself  that  would  be  none  too  good  for  him." 

Virginia  looked  inquiringly  at  her.  She  wondered  if  she  had  come 
merely  to  tell  her  this. 

"Did  Stephen  ever  say  anything  to  you  about  his  and  Bush's  bus- 
iness with  Mr.  Tucker  —  the  distillery,  I  mean  ? "  asked  Anna. 

Virginia  shook  her  head. 

"I  really  think  it  shocking  the  ignorance  in  which  those  men  have 
kept  us  about  their  affairs!  Just  suppose  anything  should  happen  to 
them!" 

"But  nothing  will,"  said  Virginia  quickly. 

"How  does  one  know  that,  my  dear  ?  The  papers  say  the  cholera 
is  at  Independence." 

"Oh!  Don't,  Anna!  How  can  you?"  and  Virginia  put  up  her 
hands  appealingly. 


68  THE  LANDRAYS 

"Well,  dear,  one  mustn't  always  look  on  the  bright  side:  It's  just 
as  well  to  be  serious  sometimes.  Goodness  knows!  You  are  always 
saying  that  I  am  not  half  serious  enough,  and  now  when  I  am  will- 
ing to  be  —  " 

"But  I  never  meant  in  this  way!"  cried  Virginia. 

"I  know,  dear,  but  there  is  absolutely  nothing  else  to  be  serious 
about!" 

"What  do  they  say  about  Mrs.  Tucker  and  Captain  Gibbs?" 
asked  Virginia,  wishing  to  bring  Anna  back  to  her  original 
i  theme. 

"They  kept  on  of  course;  isn't  it  scandalous!  I  knew  that  woman 
was  no  better  than  she  should  be,  but  Bush  always  wanted  me  to  be 
civil  on  account  of  poor  Mr.  Tucker.  Imagine,  my  dear,  she  was  his 
third  wife!  You  must  admit  there  is  a  sort  of  levity  about  such  mar- 
riages that  prevents  one  being  altogether  serious  in  thinking  of  them; 
but  did  Stephen  ever  tell  you  anything  about  the  distillery?  Every 
one  seems  to  think  that  all  of  Mr.  Tucker's  property  will  go  to  his 
wife;  and  I  always  understood  that  he  had  never  finished  paying 
for  the  distillery;  but  Mr.  Benson  seems  to  think  there  was  a  settle- 
ment just  before  Stephen  and  Bushrod  started  West.  Did  Stephen 
ever  say  anything  to  you  about  it  ? " 

"No,"  said  Virginia,  "or  if  he  did,  I  have  forgotten  it.  But  what 
were  those  papers  they  had  us  sign  just  before  they  left,  don't  you 
remember,  Anna  ? " 

"Why,  yes  —  I  am  sure  that  Bush  told  me  that  it  had  something 
to  do  with  Mr.  Tucker.  Well,  I  hope  they  won't  lose  the  distillery," 
said  Anna. 

"Mr.  Tucker's  death  will  make  no  difference,"  said  Virginia. 
And  then  she  outlined  her  plan,  which  Anna  received  coldly  and 
with  every  outward  evidence  of  disfavour. 

"What,  me  bury  myself  in  the  country?"  she  cried.  "And 
to  save  a  few  dollars?  No,  indeed;  and  I  am  sure  Bush  would 
not  be  pleased  if  I  did.  He  begged  me  not  to  mope  —  he  was 
always  such  a  dear;  you  may  feel  quite  sure  that  they  are  per- 
fectly happy;  men  always  get  along  very  well  when  they  are 
by  themselves  like  that.  I  sometimes  think  we  are  of  no  special 
use  to  them  except  to  keep  their  homes  and  to  mother  their  chil- 
dren." 

"How  is  little  Stephen,  Anna?"  Virginia  asked,  and  a  shade  of 
constraint  crept  into  her  manner.  This  was  one  of  her  hidden  griefs. 


CHAPTER  TEN  69 

Her  little  nephew  had  been  named  in  honour  of  his  grandfather,  and 
there  could  never  be  a  son  of  hers  who  might  bear  that  name.  She 
never  thought  of  this  without  a  secret  jealous  pang. 

"I  had  intended  to  bring  him  with  me,  but  I  came  off  in  such 
haste  —  " 

"If  you  were  at  the  farm"   -  began  Virginia. 

"Now  don't,  dear,"  and  Anna  put  up  her  hands  in  pretty  appeal. 
"I  know  all  the  many  advantages  of  this  dreadful  lonely  place;  I 
spent  the  first  year  of  my  married  life  here,  and  I'm  not  likely  to  for- 
get it,  for  I  never  gave  Bush  a  moment's  peace  until  he  had  bought 
the  place  in  town  and  we  had  moved  into  it.  That  nearly  broke  up 
the  family!  General  Landray  —  a  terribly  determined  old  man  — 
never  forgave  me  for  that  up  to  the  very  day  of  his  death;  he  wanted 
us  to  stay  on  here.  I  know  just  what  you  would  say,  Virginia;  I  know 
all  you  would  do  for  Stephen.  It's  such  a  pity  you  haven't  children 
of  your  own." 

Virginia  said  nothing,  but  the  colour  came  and  went  on  her  cheeks. 
There  was  a  pause  during  which  Anna  moved  restlessly  in  her  chair; 
when  Virginia  was  serious  she  was  very  depressing. 

Anna  was  small  and  dark  and  pretty,  and  under  the  cloak  of 
yielding  pliant  femininity  hid  a  stout  heart  and  certain  strenuous 
characteristics,  conspicuous  among  which  was  a  really  notable  de- 
termination to  have  her  own  way  in  all  small  matters  affecting  her 
comfort  and  pleasure.  Any  large  purpose  was  quite  beyond  her  men- 
tal scope,  but  in  the  trivial  doings  of  life,  its  little  intrigues  and  sly 
manoeuvres,  she  was  an  industrious  schemer  for  petty  victories  and 
petty  spoils.  These  were  her  failings;  but  on  the  other  hand  her  good 
nature  rarely  forsook  her,  and  she  was  prolific  with  those  kindnesses 
that  involved  no  special  self-denial. 

When  Virginia  spoke  again,  it  was  still  to  urge  the  merits  of  the 
change.  Anna  listened  patiently  and  when  the  other  had  finished, 
said,  tempering  her  refusal  with  a  compliment. 

"I  declare,  I  never  knew  you  were  such  a  manager,  Virginia. 
You  are  positively  clever.  Candidly,  dear,  I  couldn't  think  of  it.  It's 
quite  awful;  and  it's  coming  summer,  too,  with  all  those  frightful 
noisy  bugs  and  frogs  to  keep  one  awake  nights  —  I  should  positively 
die!" 

"That's  absurd,  Anna,*'  retorted  Virginia  sharply.  "I  do  wish 
you  would  be  sensible.  Think  of  the  economy  of  the  arrange- 
ment." 


70  THE  LANDRAYS 

"That's  the  very  thing  I  refuse  to  think  of.  Do  be  reasonable, 
Virginia;  what  will  our  petty  scrimpings  amount  to  in  the  course  of 
a  year  ?  And  Stephen  —  he  must  be  kept  at  school,  he  is  awfully 
backward  for  a  child  of  his  years,"  and  her  face  assumed  a  pretty 
look  of  maternal  anxiety.  "This  fall  I  want  to  enter  him  at  Doctor 
Long's  Academy,  and  if  he  were  at  the  farm  that  would  be  im- 
possible." 

"It's  easy  enough  to  find  objections,"  said  Virginia  resentfully. 

"No,  dear,  the  whole  difficulty  is  to  overcome  them,"  answered 
Anna  sweetly.  "If  I  really  thought  it  was  for  the  best,  I  would  gladly 
sacrifice  my  personal  preference;  but  I  don't  think  it  is  for  the  best. 
Besides,  I  have  asked  Mr.  Benson  to  see  Doctor  Long,  and  arrange 
for  Stephen's  admission  to  the  Academy  in  the  fall." 

"I  should  have  thought  you  would  have  preferred  to  attend  to 
that  yourself,"  said  Virginia,  who  cherished  no  little  resentment 
where  the  lawyer  was  concerned,  because  of  the  innocent  part  he 
had  been  forced  to  play  in  the  organization  of  the  hated  com- 
pany. 

"He  is  always  very  kind  and  considerate,"  murmured  Anna,  who 
by  nature  was  a  lukewarm  champion. 

"Is  he?"  said  Virginia,  but  the  look  on  her  face  was  cold  and 
repellent. 

"You  don't  like  him!" 

"There  is  no  reason  why  I  should  either  like  or  dislike  him.  He  is 
merely  my  husband's  lawyer.  So  you  feel,  Anna,  that  you  cannot  give 
up  the  house  in  town  ?" 

"Impossible,  dear,"  briskly.  Her  conviction  as  to  what  was  needed 
for  her  happiness  was  always  perfectly  clear;  she  seldom  had  cause 
to  reconsider. 

Anna  was  now  ready  to  return  to  town;  Virginia  urged  her  to  stay 
to  dinner,  but  she  had  many  reasons  why  her  presence  was  needed 
at  her  own  home,  and  Virginia  saw  that  it  was  useless  to  insist.  At 
parting  she  reached  up  to  kiss  Virginia,  she  had  to  stand  on  tiptoe 
to  do  this,  but  the  latter  with  the  stateliest  of  inclinations  pre- 
sented her  cheek  for  the  caress. 

"Why,  I  believe  you  are  angry  with  me,  Virginia,"  she  cried.  "Let 
me  look  at  you;  yes,  you  are.  Oh!  How  unfair  of  you,  Virginia  — 
and  it  is  all  on  account  of  Stephen,  I  am  sure  you  wouldn't  have 
him  grow  up  an  ignoramus  when  he  has  his  uncle's  name,  now 
would  you  ? " 


CHAPTER  TEN  71 

From  her  seat  on  the  porch  Virginia  watched  Anna  drive  away. 
She  rested  her  chin  in  the  palm  of  her  hand  and  gazed  out  across 
the  fields.  She  wondered  if  it  were  true,  as  Anna  had  suggested; 
if  Stephen  had  wearied  of  the  life  that  to  her  had  seemed  perfect  in 
its  peace  and  happiness. 

"He  didn't  leave  me  because  he  would  be  happier  away  from  me! 
he  has  gone  to  earn  money  for  me  —  as  if  I  cared  for  money!  I  hate 
it!" 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

IT  was  not  until  the  morning  of  the  third  day  following  their  ar- 
rival in  Independence  that  the  members  of  the  Benson  and  Cali- 
fornia Mining  and  Trading  Company  fell  in  at  the  rear  of  the 
wagon  train  that  since  midnight  had  been  moving  in  one  unbroken 
line  out  from  the  town  and  its  environs. 

Day  was  just  breaking  when  their  three  wagons,  drawn  by  stout 
mules,  wheeled  briskly  into  place,  and  as  the  sun  came  up  and  they 
saw  the  train  stretching  out  ahead  of  them,  they  felt  afresh  the  in- 
spiration of  their  common  hope  in  this  peaceful  conquest  of  fortune. 
A  wave  of  joyous  exultation  seemed  to  sweep  along  the  line;  whips 
cracked,  the  mounted  men  galloped  to  and  fro;  while  out  of  the  un- 
certain light  beyond,  as  the  sun  crept  up  above  the  horizon,  the  white 
lurching  tops  of  the  great  wagons  burst  into  view,  one  by  one;  but 
growing  always  smaller  until  finally  they  became  mere  white  specks, 
dropping  back  in  the  track  of  the  receding  mist. 

For  the  first  two  hundred  miles  west  from  the  Missouri  the  country 
presented  vast  reaches  of  freshest  green,  gently  rolling  and  intersected 
at  intervals  by  streams,  along  whose  banks  grew  scattered  elms  and 
cottonwoods.  Hidden  away  in  the  fertile  bottoms  they  came  upon 
farms  or  ranches,  each  with  its  patch  of  cultivated  land;  but  as  they 
advanced  these  became  less  and  less  frequent;  the  uniform  view  was 
now  one  wide,  rolling  plain,  with  a  distant  fringe  of  timber  marking 
the  water-courses. 

Then  the  waves  of  land  ceased,  the  soil  seemed  to  lose  its  fertility; 
and  a  dead  level  spread  before  the  unresisting  eye.  They  were 
entering  upon  the  region  of  the  Platte  River  and  the  plains  proper. 
Long  ere  this  the  slow-moving  oxen  had  fallen  to  the  rear  of  the 
line  of  white-topped  wagons;  the  mules  had  outstripped  them  as  they, 
in  their  turn,  were  outstripped  by  the  mounted  men.  But  a  greater 
change  was  making  itself  manifest  throughout  the  caravan.  The  en- 
thusiasm of  the  gold-seekers  was  waning  in  the  face  of  unlocked  for 

72 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN  73 

hardship  and  suffering.  The  cholera  had  caught  them  as  they  left  the 
Missouri,  and  their  line  of  march  was  dotted  with  newly-made 
graves. 

Then,  even  as  Basil  Landray  had  foretold,  the  faint-hearted  sick- 
ened of  their  enterprise,  and  with  the  stricken  ones  who  had  lost 
friends  or  relatives,  turned  back.  The  fur  trader,  giving  way  to 
boistrous  merriment,  showed  an  inclination  to  chaff  these  as  they 
passed  ;  but  Stephen  sternly  bade  him  keep  silent. 

He  was  finding  Basil  a  sore  trial,  yet  the  fur  trader  retained  a 
measure  of  his  faith  and  confidence,  for  he  displayed  a  tireless 
energy  in  the  face  of  every  difficulty.  If  their  mules  or  horses  strayed 
over  night,  it  was  usually  Basil  who  found  them  in  the  morning;  if 
there  was  a  stream  to  be  crossed,  it  was  Basil  who  located '  the 
ford;  if  they  needed  game,  Basil  was  almost  certain  to  bring  it  into 
camp;  these  were  real  and  tangible  benefits  which  could  not  be  over- 
looked. 

Stephen  and  Bushrod  discussed  him  privately;  at  first  with  a  pal- 
pable bias  in  his  favour,  magnifying  each  redeeming  trait;  but  gradu- 
ally their  feeling  of  exasperation  toward  him  was  wholly  in  the 
ascendent. 

"He's  positively  servile  to  us,"  complained  Bushrod.  "That's 
what  I  can't  stand.  If  he  treated  us  as  he  treats  Rogers,  for  instance, 
I  don't  know  but  what  I'd  like  him  a  great  deal  better;  at  least  I'd 
have  a  sufficient  excuse  to  kick  him  out  of  camp." 

"  Don't  you  think  we've  allowed  him  to  wear  on  us  ? "  said  Stephen. 
"  After  all,  I  don't  know  that  we  have  any  right  to  expect  him  to  be 
different  from  what  he  is;  and  he  certainly  is  the  most  useful  member 
of  the  company;  we  must  admit  that." 

"Yes,  he's  handy  with  the  stock,"  said  Bushrod  grudgingly. 

Early  in  June  they  reached  Fort  Laramie,  where  they  camped  with 
the  intention  of  giving  their  teams  a  rest  of  several  days.  At  the  Fort, 
which  had  been  one  of  the  many  posts  of  the  American  Fur  Com- 
pany, and  which  the  government  had  only  recently  acquired  by  pur- 
chase, they  found  a  detachment  of  Mounted  Rifles,  while  the  em- 
ployees of  the  Company  were  still  in  camp  on  the  river.  Among  these 
latter  Basil  found  a  number  of  former  associates,  and  for  a  night  and 
a  day  they  saw  nothing  of  him ;  but  on  the  second  evening  he  suddenly 
strode  into  camp,  and  flung  himself  down  in  the  midst  of  the  little 
group  about  the  fire. 

"  I  know  what  I  reckon  there's  many  a  one  would  give  a  good  deal 


74  THE  LANDRAYS 

to  know,"  he  said  jubilantly.  "Steve,  how'd  you  fancy  shortening  up 
the  trail  into  Salt  Lake  ?  I  been  talking  with  one  of  the  company's 
men  who  knows  all  the  country  hereabouts,  and  he's  marked  a  trail 
for  me." 

"I  allowed  you  knew  this  here  country  yourself,"  said  Rogers 
sarcastically.  "The  whole  of  it,  too." 

"  I  know  the  trail  we  been  following,  for  it's  the  same  I  took  when 
I  helped  fetch  Brigham  Young  across  the  plains  after  he  was  run  out 
of  Illinois." 

"Which,  I  reckon,  was  a  damn  good  job,"  said  Rogers. 

"Which,  I  reckon,  it  was  nothing  of  the  sort,"  retorted  Basil 
quickly. 

"What  about  the  new  route?"  Stephen  asked. 

"Oh,  aye.  Well,  coming  with  Brigham  Young  we  followed  the 
Platte  clear  around  until  we  came  to  the  head  of  the  Sweet  Water,  then 
we  struck  across  to  the  Big  Sandy,  and  on  down  to  Jim  Bridger's 
trading  post,  pretty  nearly  south.  But  see,  now  —  "  he  took  up  a  bit 
of  charred  stick,  and  rising,  turned  to  one  of  the  wagons  whose  can- 
vas side  showed  clearly  in  the  light  of  the  camp-fire.  "Now,  here's 
Fort  Laramie  —  Fort  John  it  was  in  the  old  days  —  and  off  here's 
Fort  Bridger,  and  way  round  here  runs  the  north  fork  of  the  Platte, 
and  here  the  Sweet  Water  lets  in. "  He  sketched  rapidly,  and  soon  the 
canvas  was  covered  with  a  rude  outline  map.  "Bear  in  mind  that's 
the  emigrant  road,  as  they  call  it;  now  we  can  strike  south  from  here 
and  follow  the  Chugwater  up  toward  its  source;  it  runs  hereaways  for 
a  matter  of  a  hundred  miles,  with  this  range  of  hills  to  the  westward  of 
it;  just  here  the  hills  break  away,  and  the  trail  turns  west;  three  day's 
march  will  bring  us  to  the  Laramie  —  which  lets  in  here  —  eight 
days  more  will  bring  us  off  here  to  Bridger's  Pass;  and  from  there  on, 
the  trail  is  almost  due  west  to  the  head  waters  of  the  Weber. " 

"And  we  won't  go  near  Fort  Bridger  at  all  ?" 

" Certain  we  shan't;  that's  north  of  us.  When  we  reach  the  Weber 
we'll  follow  it  into  the  valley;  and  if  we  need  anything  there,  I  reckon 
I'll  have  little  enough  trouble  in  getting  what's  wanted;  they  won't 
liave  forgotten  me,  or  if  they  have,  I'll  jog  their  memories  for  them. 
What  do  you  say  ?" 

Stephen  looked  at  Rogers. 

"What  do  you  think  ?"  he  asked.  He  did  this  because  it  had  been 
evident  from  the  first  that  Rogers  viewed  the  fur  trader  with  no 
friendly  eye,  just  as  it  was  equally  evident  that  Basil's  feelings  for  the 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN  75 

Californian  were  similarly  hostile,  each  regarding  the  other  as  a  rival 
in  his  own  special  field. " 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  this  new  trail, "  said  Rogers  sullenly. 

The  fur  trader  grinned  and  pulled  at  his  black  beard.  "No? 
That's  odd,  too.  I  allowed  you  knew  the  whole  blame  country,  from 
hearing  you  talk,"  he  jeered. 

Rogers  ignored  this,  and  addressed  himself  to  Stephen. 

"You'd  better  bear  in  mind  that  there'll  be  plenty  of  Indians, and 
instead  of  fifty  or  a  hundred  wagons  which  they  daren't  fool  with, 
there'll  be  just  three." 

"  I  don't  need  to  tell  Mr.  Rogers  that  these  here  Indians  of  his  will 
be  mostly  armed  with  bows  and  arrows"  said  Basil  scornfully,  but 
he  drew  his  bushy  brows  together  and  scowled  at  the  Californian. 

"No,  and  you  don't  need  to  Mister  me,"  retorted  Rogers. 

"Well,  among  friends  —  ' 

"And  you  don't  need  to  make  any  mistake  about  that  either," 
cried  Rogers  quickly.  "I  ain't  always  been  able  to  choose  my  com- 
pany, but  it's  different  with  my  friends. " 

"Why,  you  —  "  Basil  began,  his  beard  quivering;  but  Stephen  put 
out  his  hand  and  rested  it  heavily  on  his  shoulder. 

"Go  on,  Basil,"  he  said  quietly.  "How  about  grass  and  water  ?" 

"There's  enough  of  both,"  he  answered  moodily,  with  eyes  still 
fixed  on  Rogers. 

"But  is  the  road  possible  for  wagons  ?" 

The  fur  trader  grinned  arrogantly.  "  It  ain't  a  road,  it's  just  some- 
thing between  a  scent  and  a  trail, "  he  turned  to  his  map  again.  "We'll 
strike  water  here,  and  here,  and  all  along  here,  and  where  there's 
water  there's  grass.  You'll  admit,  Mr.  Rogers,  the  emigrant  road  is  a 
pretty  round  about  way  to  Salt  Lake,  if  there's  anything  nearer." 

"I'm  not  disputing  the  distances,"  said  Rogers  reluctantly,  for  he 
felt  that  the  leadership  of  the  company  was  passing  from  him.  "But 
I  don't  like  the  risks  of  getting  caught  up  with  by  the  Indians." 

"We'll  think  about  it  over  night,"  said  Stephen.  "We  shan't  leave 
here  until  day  after  to-morrow,  and,  in  the  meantime,  I'd  like  to  see 
your  friend." 

"All  right,"  said  Basil,  "That's  fair  enough.  I'll  fetch  him  round 
in  the  morning  and  you  can  talk  with  him. " 

The  result  of  this  was,  that  when  the  Landrays  left  Fort  Laramie 
they  turned  to  the  south  instead  of  to  the  west,  and  followed  down 
the  Chugwater. 


76  THE  LANDRAYS 

"It's  a  mistake,"  Rogers  said  sadly  to  Walsh.  "It's  too  much  of  a 
risk  to  run  to  save  a  few  days.  It's  a  big  mistake. " 

Even  Basil  seemed  to  recognize  that  a  caution  greater  than  they 
had  yet  shown  was  now  necessary;  for  he  instructed  his  companions 
not,  on  any  account,  to  leave  the  close  proximity  of  the  wagons,  while 
their  mules  were  no  longer  turned  loose  at  night  to  graze,  but  were 
tied  to  the  wagons  instead,  and  grass  cut  for  them. 

At  his  request  Stephen  had  bought  a  horse  for  him  before  leaving 
Fort  Laramie,  and  he  usually  rode  in  advance  of  the  company,  alert 
and  vigilant;  sometimes  Stephen  or  Bushrod  rode  with  him  on  the 
saddle  horses  they  had  brought  from  the  Missouri.  Occasionally  they 
encountered  small  roving  bands  of  Indians,  to  whom  Basil  made  pro- 
testations of  friendship  and  trifling  gifts,  but  he  refused  to  allow  them 
to  enter  the  camp  on  any  pretext. 

Rogers,  who  was  not  beyond  a  certain  fairness,  admitted  that  the 
fur  trader's  presence  was  of  supreme  value,  and  he  surprised  the 
others  by  the  unquestioning  obedience  he  yielded  him  in  all  matters 
that  bore  upon  their  safety.  His  condition  had  steadily  improved 
since  leaving  Missouri,  he  now  insisted  upon  doing  his  share  of  guard 
duty,  from  which  he  had  formerly  been  exempt,  and  Basil  declared 
him  the  most  trustworthy  member  of  the  party. 

"I  don't  have  to  stir  about  when  it's  his  watch,"  he  told  Bushrod. 
"He  don't  go  to  sleep  like  Walsh  and  Bingham,  who  have  to  be 
kicked  awake  every  now  and  then,  and  he  don't  take  the  flapping  of 
the  wagon  canvases  for  Indians  like  Dunlevy  does.  I  reckon  he's  been 
a  man  in  his  day." 

But  beyond  the  Chugwater  an  incident  occurred  which  effectually 
destroyed  the  apparent  good  feeling  that  had  prevailed  since  they  left 
Fort  Laramie.  They  had  camped  for  the  night  at  the  head  of  a  small 
stream,  and  not  far  from  a  sparse  growth  of  cottonwoods,  whither 
Basil  had  gone  with  Rogers  and  Dunlevy  to  bring  in  a  supply  of  fire- 
wood. Benny,  near  the  wagons  which  had  been  drawn  together  in 
the  form  of  a  triangle,  had  already  started  a  fire  of  dry  twigs  against 
the  return  of  the  choppers.  Not  far  off  the  others  of  the  party  with 
their  hunting-knives  were  busy  cutting  grass  for  the  mules  and 
horses. 

Suddenly,  coming  from  the  cottonwoods,  Stephen  caught  the 
sound  of  angry  voices.  First  it  was  Rogers's  voice,  high  pitched  and 
bitter  with  the  ready  rancour  of  ill-health ;  a  pause  succeeded,  and  then 
Basil  seemed  to  answer  him,  but  in  a  more  moderate  tone.  Stephen, 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN  77 

suspending  his  work,  glanced  at  Bushrod  in  mute  inquiry,  and  at  that 
moment  Dunlevy  stepped  out  of  the  wood. 

"Landray!"  he  called  loudly.  "You  and  your  brother  had  better 
come  here." 

The  two  men  dropped  their  knives,  and  strode  toward  him  in 
haste. 

"Basil  must  let  Rogers  alone,"  said  Bushrod.  "Can't  he  see  the 
man's  sick  and  to  be  pitied  ?" 

They  had  entered  the  woods,  and  now  they  came  out  upon  its 
furthest  margin  and  upon  a  surprising  group.  Rogers,  pale  and  shak- 
ing with  rage,  Basil  very  red  in  the  face,  and  three  figures  on  horse- 
back. One  of  these  was  a  white  man,  a  tall  fellow  in  a  ragged  uniform, 
which  they  recognized  as  that  of  the  Mounted  Rifles;  his  two  com- 
panions were  wrapped  in  gaudy  blankets,  their  long  rifles  resting 
across  the  horns  of  their  saddles.  Stephen  and  Bushrod  instantly 
divined  that  they  were  half-breeds,  while  the  likeness  they  bore  each 
other  was  sufficiently  marked  to  indicate  that  they  were  brothers. 
Their  glance  was  fixed  on  the  fur  trader,  but  the  stoical  composure 
they  maintained  told  nothing  of  what  was  passing  in  their  minds. 
The  white  man,  too,  was  preserving  a  strictly  impartial  silence. 

Rogers  was  saying:  "I  got  as  much  to  say  about  this  as  any  one." 

Basil  lowered  at  him  with  sour  hatred.  "You?  Who  the  hell  are 
you  ?  You  ain't  got  a  dollar  in  the  outfit!" 

"  I  got  what  counts  for  money, "  answered  Rogers,  and  shook  his 
fist  in  Basil's  face. 

"What's  the  matter,  Basil  ?"  demanded  the  Landrays  in  a  breath. 

The  fur  trader  smiled  rather  sheepishly.  "It's  this  fool,  Rogers," 
he  began  sullenly. 

"Oh,  go  to  hell!"  interrupted  Rogers.  He  pointed  to  the  three 
silent  figures  on  horseback  and  cried  fiercely:  "This  half-breed 
outfit's  his!" 

"Easy!"  said  the  uniformed  stranger,  with  a  light,  good-natured 
laugh.  "I'm  no  half-breed,  and  I'm  just  mighty  glad  to  see  you 
white  folks!" 

"And  who  are  you  ?"  demanded  Stephen. 

"It's  too  bad,  Cap,  but  I  came  off  in  such  a  hurry  I  clean  left  my 
kyards  behind,  but  if  you'll  take  my  word  for  it,  Raymond's  my 
name."  He  leaned  slightly  toward  Stephen  as  he  spoke,  with  an 
air  of  winning  candour.  "I'm  real  put  out  that  yonder  party's  so 
upset."  He  spoke  with  grave  concern.  "Yes,  sir,  real  put  out." 


78  THE  LANDRAYS 

"  But  who  are  you  ?  And  what  are  you  doing  here  ?" 

"Raymond's  my  name,  Cap,"  repeated  the  stranger  affably. 
"Like  I  should  spell  it  for  you  ?" 

"Where's  his  rifle,  why  ain't  he  armed,  and  how  does  it  come  he 
knows  your  cousin  ? "  cried  Rogers. 

"Party's  eyesight  ain't  a  failing  him  yet,"  murmured  the  stranger 
in  a  tone  of  caressing  confidence  to  Stephen.  "Well,"  he  added, 
"since  you  seem  to  object  to  us,  me  and  my  friends  here'll  just  cut 
loose."' 

"No  you  don't,  Raymond!"  cried  Basil  angrily. 

"See  you  in  Salt  Lake,"  said  Raymond,  gathering  up  his  reins. 
"Enquire  for  me." 

"I'll  see  you  all  the  way  there,  too,"  retorted  Basil  with  an  oath. 
He  spoke  sharply  to  the  half-breeds,  who  at  once  closed  up,  one  on 
each  side  of  Raymond.  The  latter  dropped  back  in  his  saddle,  relaxing 
his  hold  on  the  bridle  rein.  Stephen  regarded  him  in  silence  for  a 
moment. 

"Didn't  I  see  you  at  Fort  Laramie  ?"  he  asked. 

The  stranger,  still  smiling,  nodded,  and  raising  his  hand  to  the 
corner  of  his  mouth  spat  decorously  back  of  it. 

"In  the  colonel's  quarters,  was  it  not  ?"  said  Stephen  sternly. 

"The  blamed  old  tarrapin  was  snapping  away  at  me  right  lively;" 
he  was  still  smiling  pleasantly.  He  gestured  slightly  with  his  hand. 
"Out  here,  me  and  him  would  have  had  some  sort  of  a  falling  out  I 
reckon,  but  back  yonder  I  had  to  swallow  what  he  said,  though  his 
words  were  choky  enough.  Them  army  men's  real  candid. " 

"I  believe  you  had  attempted  to  desert,"  said  Stephen,  with  illy- 
concealed  disgust. 

"Well,  you  might  call  it  an  attempt.  I  reckon  the  colonel  counts 
it  more  then  that.  I  held  the  lead  for  more  than  a  hundred  miles,  and 
I  reckon  I'd  be  holding  it  yet  only  my  hoss  went  lame.  It  was  the  best 
hoss  the  colonel  owned,  too."  His  smile  never  lost  a  certain  amiabil- 
ity; it  seemed  to  spring  from  the  unperverted  innocence  of  his  nature. 

"How  did  you  get  here  ?"  demanded  Stephen. 

"Ask  him.  He  done  it, "  and  he  jerked  his  thumb  in  the  direction  of 
Basil.  Stephen  turned  to  the  fur  trader. 

"What  have  you  to  say  about  this  ?"  he  asked  gravely. 

"He's  all  right.  I'll  vouch  for  him  and  the  half-breeds,"  he  said. 

"That  isn't  what  I  want  to  know.  I  want  to  know  how  he  happens 
to  be  here,"  insisted  Stephen. 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN  79 

"I  fixed  that  with  the  half-breeds,"  and  Basil  laughed. 
"You  mean  you  got  them  to  break  jail  for  him  ?" 
"What  the  devil  difference  does  it  make  ?" 

"The  man's  a  deserter,  and  the  part  you  have  played  in  releas- 
.  i  .  ,,  j  f  j 

ing  him  — 

"What  odds  does  it  make  to  you  ?"  retorted  Basil.  Then  he  mod- 
erated his  tone.  "Oh,  come  now,  Steve,  what's  the  use  of  your  sweat- 
ing about  this  ?  Louis  and  Baptiste  here  will  help  with  the  stock; 
Raymond's  all  right,  too.  They're  three  mighty  good  men  to  have 
about." 

But  now  Rogers  broke  in  with  objections.  "It's  right  enough  for 
the  rest  of  you.  But  my  wife  was  killed  by  the  Indians.  These  are 
half-breeds,  but  I  got  no  more  use  for  half-breeds  than  whole 
breeds.  They're  all  one  to  me. " 

"Yes,"  said  Basil  roughly,  "you'd  have  used  your  rifle  on  Louis 
there.  Lucky  for  you  I  saw  you  getting  ready  to  shoot. " 

"I  may  have  a  chance  to  use  it  on  him  yet,"  answered  Rogers,  and 
he  directed  a  volley  of  abuse  at  the  fur  trader.  The  latter  flushed 
hotly. 

"Come  aside,  you  two,"  said  Stephen,  nodding  to  his  brother  and 
the  fur  trader.  "Now,"  he  said,  when  they  were  out  of  ear  shot  of  the 
others,  "am  I  to  understand,  Basil,  that  you  induced  those  half- 
breeds  to  liberate  that  man?" 

"You've  got  the  idea  exactly.  See  here,  Steve,  Raymond's  a  friend 
of  mine;  his  father's  one  of  the  big  men  in  Salt  Lake.  Raymond  and 
the  old  man  never  got  along  any  too  well,  and  a  while  back  Ray- 
mond joined  the  army.  He  knew  that  would  make  the  old  man  hop 
and  swear,  but  he  found  he'd  rather  overdone  the  business,  and, 
naturally,  he  tried  to  cut  loose  from  the  whole  thing.  He  deserted,  and 
was  fetched  back;  that's  when  you  saw  him.  I  heard  he  was  in  the 
guard-house  and  managed  to  see  him;  and  he  offered  me  five  hundred 
dollars  if  I'd  help  him  out  and  get  him  into  the  valley  where  all  the 
soldiers  in  the  United  States  can't  touch  him.  As  he  ain't  any  money, 
and  as  he's  pretty  slippery,  I  just  had  the  two  half-breeds  bring  him 
along  so  I'd  have  him  where  I  could  keep  my  hands  on  him.  They're 
to  get  half  the  money,  you  see. " 

Stephen  had  regarded  the  fur  trader  in  blank  astonishment  while 
he  explained  the  part  he  had  had  in  the  deserter's  release.  Now  he 
turned  to  Bushrod,  who  burst  out  laughing. 

"This  is  a  unique  adventure  for  two  law-abiding  citizens." 


8o  THE  LANDRAYS 

"What  would  you  do  ?"  asked  Stephen. 

"Do  ?"  cried  Bushrod.  "Send  the  miserable  rascal  back,  with  our 
compliments  to  his  colonel." 

"Try  it!"  said  Basil,  sullenly. 

"Well,  and  what  if  we  do  try  it?"  said  Bushrod,  flushing  angrily 
at  the  other's  tone  and  manner. 

"Try  it!"  repeated  Basil  doggedly. 

But  Stephen  shook  his  head  slowly.  "We're  two  hundred  miles 
from  Fort  Laramie, "  he  said. 

"You  can  keep  on.  I'll  take  him  back  myself,  and  join  you  in  Salt 
Lake,"  said  Bushrod. 

"No,  if  one  goes  back,  all  must  go  back." 

"Well,  then,  none  will  go,  Steve,  you  know  that." 

"But  what  about  the  two  half-breeds  and  the  deserter?"  asked 
Stephen,  with  a  troubled  frown. 

"I  expect  they'll  accompany  us  into  Salt  Lake,"  said  Bushrod, 
with  a  shrewd  smile.  Then  he  turned  on  his  cousin. 

"We'll  dispense  with  you  when  we  reach  Salt  Lake,  do  you  hear  ?" 

That  night  the  two  Indians  and  the  deserter  hobbled  their  horses 
and  went  intt>  camp  on  the  edge  of  the  cottonwoods,  and  within  a 
stone's  throw  of  the  wagons. 


CHAPTER   TWELVE 

A  I  Anna  turned  from  the  lane  into  the  public  road  she  met  a 
cart  which  held  a  man  and  a  woman.  They  were  on  the  point 
of  entering  the  lane  as  she  left  it.  She  smiled  and  nodded 
gaily  to  the  man;  then  she  stared  hard  at  his  companion.  She  won- 
dered whom  it  could  be  that  Mr.  Benson  had  with  him,  and  what  he 
was  doing  there.  Then  she  regretted  she  had  been  in  such  haste  to 
leave  Virginia. 

"I  am  always  doing  the  most  stupid  things,"  she  said  with  a  sigh. 
"I've  almost  a  mind  to  turn  back  and  pretend  I've  forgotten  some- 
thing. I  wonder  if  I  haven't  ?"  but  a  hasty  search  revealed  that  her 
purse  and  handkerchief  were  in  her  pocket,  and  so,  perforce,  she 
continued  on  her  way  into  town. 

Meanwhile  the  cart  had  kept  on  up  the  lane  toward  the  house. 

"That  was  Mrs.  Bushrod  Landray,"  Benson  explained.  "I  might 
have  taken  you  to  her,  but  I  think  you  will  prefer  to  meet  her 
sister. " 

When  they  reached  the  horse-block  by  the  front  steps,  Benson 
climbed  briskly  down  from  the  cart  and  turned  to  assist  his  com- 
panion to  alight;  but  he  saw  that  she  hesitated.  His  glance  was  full 
of  sympathy. 

"I  am  very  sorry,  Mrs.  Walsh,"  he  said  gently,  and  his  whole 
manner  was  the  extreme  of  kindness;  then  his  face  brightened.  "Per- 
haps you'd  rather  I  saw  her  first  alone;  I  can  just  as  well  as  not.  It 
will  save  you  all  explanation.  If  you  don't  mind  sitting  here  — 

Mrs.  Walsh  hesitated.  "  I  hardly  like  to  ask  so  much  of  you,  you 
have  been  more  than  kind  already. " 

"You  must  regard  me  merely  as  your  intermediary.  We  lawyers 
are  accustomed  to  execute  all  kinds  of  commissions. "  and  he  handed 
her  the  reins. 

"  But  not  always  for  such  an  unprofitable  client,  Mr.  Benson,"  she 
answered  gravely. 

ft 


82  THE  LANDRAYS 

"Sometimes  the  mere  ability  to  serve  carries  its  own  recompense, 
Mrs.  Walsh.  The  idea  of  any  other  would  degrade  the  service,"  and 
he  made  her  a  formal  little  bow.  Then  he  turned  away  and  went  slowly 
up  the  steps. 

He  had  not  seen  Virginia  since  the  day  he  had  driven  out  to  the 
farm  to  consult  Stephen  about  the  renewal  of  the  note.  Virginia  her- 
self answered  his  knock,  but  her  beautiful  face  was  impassive  and 
calm,  and  her  glance  strayed  on  beyond  him  to  the  woman  in  the 
cart.  He  felt  a  sudden  sense  of  exultation  in  her  presence,  and  the 
blood  mounted  warmly  to  his  cheek.  He  half  extended  his  hand,  but 
while  he  hesitated,  Virginia  drew  back  a  step,  it  might  have  been 
unconsciously,  and  his  hand  fell  at  his  side. 

"Will  you  grant  me  a  moment  in  private,  Mrs.  Landray  ?"  he  said 
deferentially,  for  even  when  he  came  to  have  the  feeling  for  her  that 
was  neither  hate  nor  love,  but  some  part  of  each,  he  still  paid  her  this 
tacit  homage;  his  manner  never  altered. 

Virginia  looked  at  him  in  surprise,  but  said:  "Certainly,  will 
you  come  into  the  library,  Mr.  Benson?"  The  conscious  severity  of 
her  manner  toward  him  did  not  relax. 

This  call  was  quite  incomprehensible  to  her.  She  acknowledged, 
however,  that  to  gratify  a  reasonable  curiosity  on  this  point  she  must 
sacrifice  the  opportunity  to  show  her  just  indignation  at  the  part  she 
still  believed  he  had  played  in  sending  her  husband  West.  She  led  the 
way  down  the  hall  and  into  the  library,  where  she  silently  motioned 
him  to  a  chair.  He  seated  himself  and  carefully  placed  his  hat  and 
gloves  on  the  floor  at  his  feet.  While  he  was  thus  engaged  her  calm 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  him,  their  look  grave  and  inquiring;  and  he  ex- 
perienced somev,  hat  the  same  feeling  he  had  known  some  five  years 
before  when  he  faced  his  first  judge  and  jury;  there  were  the  same 
dry  lips  and  parched  throat,  the  same  wonder  in  his  heart  if  any- 
thing would  come  of  it  when  he  opened  his  lips  to  speak.  He  knew 
that  his  task  would  not  be  lightened  by  any  word  of  hers. 

"It's  rather  a  difficult  matter  that  brings  me  here,"  he  began  halt- 
ingly. "  I  should  not  have  ventured  on  this  errand  had  it  not  been  that 
the  need  was  very  urgent.  You  will  remember  that  when  your  hus- 
band went  West  he  took  with  him  a  young  man  by  the  name  of 
Walsh?" 

It  was  an  unlucky  start,  for  Virginia's  face  hardened  perceptibly. 
He  was  immediately  conscious  of  this,  even  while  he  did  not  divine 
the  reason  for  it.  He  bit  his  lip,  angry  with  himself  that  he  had  not 


CHAPTER  TWELVE  83 

first  made  his  appeal  to  her  pity.  Then  his  pride  came  to  the  rescue; 
this  was  not  the  first  hostile  judge  he  had  confronted. 

"Walsh  was  only  recently  married  when  he  joined  the  company; 
he  was  a  stranger  here,  but,  I  believe,  a  man  of  excellent  antecedents; 
however,  the  really  serious  part  of  it  is,  that  his  wife  is  quite  alone 
and  entirely  friendless." 

"I  have  no  patience  with  him  for  leaving  her,"  said  Virginia. 

"It  is  hard  to  condone,"  admitted  the  lawyer. 

"It  seems  to  me,  Mr.  Benson,  that  since  he  was  too  careless  to 
think  of  his  wife's  happiness  himself,  some  friend  should  have  re- 
minded him  of  his  duty." 

"I  am  aware  his  judgment  in  the  matter  may  readily  be  called  into 
question,  Mrs.  Landray,  but  I  suppose  he  expects  to  make  his  for- 
tune. "  He  was  bent  on  agreeing  with  her.  He  felt  her  anger  but  was 
unable  to  determine  a  motive  for  it. " 

"And  so  make  amends  for  all  his  selfishness  ?  As  if  he  ever  could," 
cried  Virginia  in  a  tone  of  keen  exasperation. 

Benson  picked  up  his  hat  and  smoothed  the  crown  nervously.  Her 
manner  was  inexplicable. 

"I  wonder  you  did  not  advise  him  as  to  his  duty,"  added  Virginia. 

"I,  Mrs.  Landray  ?  Why,  I  never  spoke  ten  words  to  the  man  in  my 
life  until  the  day  before  the  company  left;  then  he  came  to  my  office 
and  placed  one  or  two  small  matters  of  business  in  my  hands." 

"Oh,"  said  Virginia  haughtily.  "Your  advice  was  reserved  for 
your  friends  and  clients." 

"Really,  Mrs.  Landray,"  answered  Benson  quietly,  "I  am  very 
unfortunate  in  that  I  seem  to  have  offended  you,  but  I  assure  you  I  am 
quite  in  the  dark  as  to  what  my  misdeeds  are. " 

But  Virginia  was  in  no  mood  to  explain;  indeed,  she  considered  him 
quite  unworthy  of  any  such  frankness,  which  would  have  argued  an 
intimacy  she  did  not  admit. 

"Just  now  you  were  speaking  to  me  of  Mrs.  Walsh, "  she  said,  with 
a  swift  change  of  position,  and  with  a  polite  if  passive  interest.  "What 
more  have  you  to  tell  me  of  her  ?" 

"While  I  quite  agree  with  you  that  Walsh  was  singularly  negligent 
of  her  happiness  in  going  WTest,  and  in  leaving  her  here  among 
strangers,  still  the  fact  remains  he  did  go,  but  that's  not  the  worst 
of  it.  It  seems  —  and  Mrs.  Walsh  told  me  this  with  the  greatest  reluc- 
tance —  it  seems  that  the  money  he  had  put  aside  for  her  support  in 
his  absence  has  been  lost  in  some  speculation  of  his  brother's,  in 


84  THE  LANDRAYS 

whose  hands  the  money  was  left.  As  nearly  as  I  can  gather,  Mrs. 
Walsh  is  absolutely  penniless.  She  has  appealed  to  me  for  advice,  and 
I  am  quite  at  a  loss  to  know  what  to  suggest;  I  suppose  she  can  secure 
employment  here  of  some  sort."  Benson  paused,  and  rubbed  his  chin 
reflectively  and  a  trifle  ruefully.  "The  whole  matter  is  rather  out  of 
my  line;  but  she  is  so  manifestly  a  lady  that  I  should  say  it  narrowed 
her  chances  very  materially;  naturally,  too,  she  is  crushed  and  hu- 
miliated by  the  whole  circumstance,  and  is  hardly  able  to  think  for 
herself.  I  hoped  —  I  thought  —  you  might  be  willing  to  see  and  ad- 
vise with  her.  I  know  I  have  no  right  to  impose  this  upon  you,  still  you 
have  nothing  to  fear  from  her,  in  the  way  of  becoming  a  depend- 
ent, I  mean;  she  is  in  no  sense  an  object  of  charity;  on  the  contrary 
she  shows  a  commendable  pride  and  entire  independence  of  spirit; 
but  she  is  very  young  and  inexperienced,  really  scarcely  more  than  a 
child.  I  thought  you  might  be  able  to  suggest  something  she  could  do. 
I  hardly  know  what,  but  surely  there  is  some  occupation  she  can  take 
up  until  such  time  as  her  husband  can  make  suitable  provision  for 
her,"  he  concluded  hesitatingly.  "I  didn't  know  whom  to  turn  to, 
until  I  thought  of  you. " 

There  was  a  pause  during  which  Virginia  considered  the  matter 
in  all  its  lights.  At  another  time  her  sympathies,  which  were  always 
generous,  would  have  led  her  to  prompt  action,  but  now,  with  the  idea 
of  the  decay  of  the  family  fortunes  firmly  implanted  in  her  mind,  she 
was  reluctant  to  take  a  step  that  might  involve  her  in  any  way. 

Benson's  face  fell.  He  had  expected  something  different  of  her.  He 
half  rose  from  his  chair. 

"I  fear  I  was  entirely  too  hasty."  There  was  palpable  disappoint- 
ment in  his  manner  which  he  did  not  attempt  to  conceal. 

"No,  no,"  said  Virginia  quickly.  "I  was  only  wondering  if  I  knew 
of  anything. " 

"Then  you  will  see  her  ?"  he  was  immensely  relieved. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  will  go  out  to  her,"  and  she  turned  swiftly  to  the  door, 
but  he  detained  her  by  a  gesture. 

"If  you  will  permit  it  I  will  ask  her  to  come  here  to  you;  probably 
she  will  prefer  to  see  you  alone.  I'll  just  step  down  to  the  mill;  I  wish 
to  see  Paxon,"  he  said. 

Virginia  signified  her  assent,  and  taking  up  his  hat  and  gloves  he 
hurried  from  the  room  and,  a  moment  later,  Mrs.  Walsh  came 
quickly  into  the  library,  though,  evidently,  with  no  little  trepidation. 
She  was  very  young,  as  Benson  had  said,  slight  and  fair,  and  exceed- 


CHAPTER  TWELVE  85 

ingly  pretty.  She  w*s  dressed  in  black,  but  her  veil  was  thrown  back 
so  that  Virginia  could  see  her  face. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  meet  you,"  said  Virginia  kindly;  then  she 
made  a  forward  step,  extending  her  hand.  "Won't  you  sit  down  ? 
It's  quite  a  drive  out  from  town;  do  make  yourself  comfortable. " 
And  she  led  her  to  a  chair. 

Mrs.  Walsh  was  vastly  relieved  by  her  cordiality.  She  mutely  look- 
ed her  gratitude.  After  a  moment's  silence  she  said:  "I  should  hardly 
have  dared  to  come  to  you,  Mrs.  Landray,  without  Mr.  Benson  had 
urged  it.  I  can't  tell  you  what  cause  I  have  to  be  grateful  to  him,  he 
has  been  so  kind." 

"  It  was  his  place  to  be  kind, "  said  Virginia;  and  something  told  her 
visitor  that  Mrs.  Landray  did  not  like  Mr.  Benson.  This  caused  her 
an  instant's  surprise. 

"You  know  I  am  an  utter  stranger  here,  Mrs.  Landray;  my  hus- 
band came  West  to  fill  a  position  as  instructor  in  Doctor  Long's 
Academy."  The  connection  had  evidently  seemed  a  notable  one  to 
the  young  wife,  for  she  referred  it  it  with  manifest  pride. 

"I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Landray  shortly,  "it  was  very  foolish  of  him 
to  leave  you,  and  sacrifice  such  a  desirable  position. " 

"I  thought  so,  too, "  agreed  the  young  wife,  "  but  he  hopes  for  such 
great  things  from  this  journey  to  California.  His  letters  are  so  brave 
and  full  of  courage.  I  am  trying  to  share  in  all  he  feels.  It  was  not 
easy  for  him  to  go;  I  am  sure  this  separation  is  quite  as  hard  for 
him  to  bear  as  it  is  for  me. " 

"But  what  about  you,  my  dear  ? "  said  Virginia.  "The  fortune  he  is 
to  make  is  all  in  the  future.  What  about  the  present  ?" 

"Ah,  that  is  very  serious,"  and  her  face  clouded  with  doubt.  "I 
shall  not  know  where  to  write  him  until  after  he  reaches  California; 
and  even  then  I  must  wait  weeks  and  months  for  his  answer  telling 
me  what  to  do,  and  all  that  while  I  must  live  —  but  how  ?" 

"Then  you  are  quite  without  means  ?"  said  Virginia  gravely. 

"Yes,  but  when  Jasper  left,  there  was  a  small  sum  of  money  which 
he  had  placed  with  his  brother  in  New  York  when  he  came  to  Benson. 
He  had  arranged,  as  he  thought,  that  this  money  was  to  be  sent  to  me, 
and  I  was  to  place  it  in  Mr.  Benson's  hands  for  safe  keeping,  who 
was  to  let  me  have  it  as  I  needed  it;  but  now  Jasper's  brother  writes 
that  the  business  in  which  the  money  was  invested  has  been  a  failure, 
and  that  it  is  lost;  that  there  is  no  hope  of  recovering  any  part  of 
it." 


86  THE  LANDRAYS 

"Has  he  made  no  effort  to  recover  it  ?"  asked  Virginia  frowning.  It 
was  a  matter  of  no  small  regret  to  her  that  this  brother  had  been  per- 
mitted to  shirk  his  responsibilities.  She  felt  that  something  should  be 
done  to  him. 

"Mr.  Benson  has  written  him,  and  I,  of  course;  but  all  he  will  say  is 
that  his  business  is  a  failure,  and  that  he  has  been  able  to  save  nothing 
from  the  wreck.  It  is  useless  to  look  to  him  for  help;  I  must  do  for 
myself." 

"And  what  can  you  do  ?"  asked  Virginia. 

"I  might  become  a  seamstress,  or  a  nurse,  or  a  companion." 

Virginia  shook  her  head.  "You  are  not  strong  enough  to  be  a  nurse, 
and  I  know  of  no  one  who  wants  a  companion;  as  for  sewing,  it  is  illy- 
paid  work  at  best;  you  could  scarcely  make  a  living  at  that.  Have  you 
no  one  —  in  the  East,  I  mean,  who  might  be  willing  to  help  you  until 
your  husband  can  provide  for  you  himself?" 

"My  aunt,  with  whom  I  lived  as  a  child,  has  died  since  my  mar- 
riage, and  Jasper  only  has  this  brother,  and  he  is  on  the  point  of  leav- 
ing for  California  himself. " 

"I  should  like  to  see  him,"  said  Virginia.  Mrs.  Walsh  looked  at  her 
in  some  surprise.  "I  would  give  him  a  piece  of  my  mind."  Virginia 
added,  for  her  fuller  enlightenment. 

"He  is  not  very  reliable,  I  fear,"  admitted  Mrs.  Walsh. 

"So  I  should  suppose,"  said  Virginia  drily 

"Dr.  Long  would  have  given  me  a  position  in  his  academy  to  teach 
the  very  small  children,  but  his  daughter  will  do  that  so  really  he  can 
do  nothing  for  me.  I  think  he  was  rather  put  out  at  my  husband's 
leaving  so  suddenly.  Of  course,  I  went  to  him  first.  I  have  been  very 
wretched  and  lonely  —  "  and  her  lips  quivered  pathetically. 

"My  dear,"  said  Virginia  with  sudden  animation,  "you  shall  stay 
here  with  me  until  you  hear  from  your  husband!" 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Landray!" 

"I  am  lonely,  too.  It  may  be  that  we  can  cheer  each  other  up.  At 
any  rate  you  shall  remain  with  me  until  your  husband  knows  of 
your  need  and  provides  for  you.  It  will  not  be  for  long,  and  I  shall 
be  most  happy  to  serve  you  in  this  way. " 

"  But  I  can't  be  a  dependent  —  that  of  all  things  — 

"But  you  won't  be.  No,  I  won't  listen  to  your  objections.  I 
know  Stephen  would  expect  me  to  do  this." 

Just  then,  through  the  open  window,  she  saw  Benson  crossing  the 
yard  from  the  mill.  She  turned  toward  the  door. 


CHAPTER  TWELVE  87 

"Here  comes  Mr.  Benson.  I  will  see  him  and  tell  him  it  is  all 
arranged. " 

She  found  the  lawyer  with  one  foot  on  the  porch  steps,  hesitating 
as  to  whether  or  not  he  should  enter  the  house. 

"Mr.  Benson/'  she  said  in  her  clear,  calm  voice,  "Mrs.  Walsh 
will  stay  with  me.  May  I  ask  you  to  see  that  her  trunk  is  sent  out 
from  the  town  in  the  morning  ?  Though,  perhaps,  I'd  better  send 
Sam  in  for  it,  so  I  need  not  trouble  you." 

"It  will  be  no  trouble  in  the  world,"  he  made  haste  to  assure  her. 
"Mrs.  Landray,  this  is  most  kind  of  you,  most  generous;  I  am 
more  than  grateful,"  and  his  boyish  face  flushed  with  real  feeling. 
Virginia's  face,  however,  remained  wholly  impassive.  She  did  not 
ask  him  into  the  house,  but  stood  above  him  on  the  top  step,  statu- 
esque and  beautiful,  her  tall  figure  sharply  outlined  against  the  dark 
green  of  the  woodbine  and  wisteria  that  rioted  over  the  porch. 
Benson  stole  a  glance  at  her.  His  face  was  still  radiant.  This  was 
what  he  had  secretly  expected  of  her,  and  his  own  generous  enthu- 
siasm leaped  up  to  touch  her's;  but  it  met  with  no  response. 

"She  doesn't  want  praise,"  he  thought.  "She  is  satisfied  to  be  kind 
and  generous."  He  hesitated  irresolutely,  but  there  was  no  invitation 
in  her  manner,  and  she  did  not  speak.  It  occurred  to  him  that  she 
might  be  waiting  for  him  to  go,  and  his  face  burnt  again. 

"I  will  drive  out  and  see  Mrs.  Walsh  in  a  day  or  so  if  I  may." 

"Certainly,"  said  Virginia.  "Perhaps  you  will  see  her  before  you 
g0<?" 

"You  will  say  good-bye  to  her  for  me,  please.  I'll  not  go  in."  He 
half  hoped  she  would  insist;  but  her  attitude  was  one  of  waiting. 
He  turned  slowly  toward  his  horse. 

"If  there  is  anything  I  can  do,  Mrs.  Landray,  I  trust  you 
will  not  hesitate  to  command  me,"  and  he  took  his  leave  in  some 
haste;  more  haste,  it  occurred  to  him  afterward,  than  the  occasion 
warranted. 

As  Virginia  turned  back  into  the  hall,  Mrs.  Walsh  met  her.  "Oh, 
lias  he  gone  ?"  she  said.  "I  so  wanted  to  thank  him."  and  her  voice 
was  full  of  regret.  "What  will  he  think  of  me,  after  all  he  has  done! 
Can't  I  run  after  him  ?" 

"It  is  too  late  now,  I  fear,  but  he  will  be  here  again  and  then  you 
will  have  your  opportunity."  Then  her  glance  softened.  "You  are 
such  a  child, "  she  said,  extending  her  hand  with  a  cordial  gesture. 
"What  is  your  name?" 


88  THE  LANDRAYS 

"Jane,"  answered  the  other,  smiling  happily  and  forgetting  all 
about  Benson;  and  then  she  slipped  her  arms  about  Virginia,  and 
there  was  a  moment  given  up  to  hushed  confidences  on  the  part  of 
the  young  wife  in  the  darkened  hall.  At  last  Virginia  cried:  "Oh,  my 
dear,  how  could  he  leave  you  when  he  knew  that  ?"  and  her  great 
eyes,  now  all  softness  and  tenderness,  swam  with  pity.  "How  could 
he  ?"  she  repeated. 


CHAPTER   THIRTEEN 

THE  deserter  squatted  on  his  haunches  and  spat  reflectively 
at  the  fire;  his  mild  blue  eyes,  large  and  oxlike,  gazed  into 
the  dancing  flames,  with  an  expression  of  placid  content. 

Stephen  and  Bushrod  lay  on  their  blankets,  weary  from  the  day's 
travel.  Walsh  was  playing  cards  with  the  two  teamsters.  Rogers 
leaned  against  the  wheel  of  one  of  the  wagons,  with  Benny  asleep 
in  the  shadow  at  his  side. 

The  deserter  nodded  silently  to  each  in  turn  and  they  as  silently 
nodded  back  to  him.  He  glanced  from  the  group  he  had  joined  to  the 
group  he  had  just  left,  and  a  matter  of  fifty  feet  separated  the  two. 
The  burly  half-breeds  sat  motionless  and  erect  in  the  circle  of  light 
cast  by  their  camp-fire,  their  blankets  drawn  about  their  shoulders. 
The  fur  trader  was  deep  in  earnest  conversation  with  them  and  the 
deserter,  noting  this,  his  face  took  on  a  curious,  puzzled  expression; 
then,  with  a  lingering  glance  in  Basil's  direction,  he  turned  to  Stephen. 
He  jerked  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder. 

"He  seems  to  find  plenty  to  say  when  I  ain't  about.  Mr.  Landray, 
white's  no  name  for  the  way  you've  treated  me.  I  reckon  I'd  be  mighty 
lonely  if  I'd  to  mess  steady  with  them. "  He  spoke  gratefully  in  a  slow, 
soft  voice;  he  put  up  his  hands  and  shielded  his  face  from  the  camp- 
fire's  light  and  heat.  "A  week  or  so  and  I'll  be  doing  my  best  to  get 
friendly  with  father;  but  I  reckon  fatted  calf  won't  form  no  part  of 
the  first  meal  I  set  down  to  with  him,"  and  a  shrewd,  sly,  smile 
curled  his  lips. 

Ten  days  had  elapsed  since  the  complete  disruption  of  the  party, 
when  Basil  had  cast  his  lot  wholly  with  the  half-breeds.  His  intercourse 
with  his  cousins  was  now  limited  to  the  fewest  possible  words.  Not 
so  the  late  member  of  the  Mounted  Rifles.  Had  he  been  an  ordinary 
ruffian,  they  would  have  regretted  the  evident  preference  he  had 
displayed  from  the  very  first  for  their  society;  but  clearly  he  was  not 
an  ordinary  ruffian.  He  appeared  a  frank,  simple  soul;  and  even  his 

89 


90  THE  LANDRAYS 

morality,  which  was  more  than  doubtful,  seemed  entirely  a  matter 
of  accident,  and  something  for  which  he  could  not  be  held  responsi- 
ble. He  came  and  went  freely  between  the  two  camps;  he  treated  all 
with  the  same  gentle  affection;  he  overflowed  with  a  graceful  con- 
siderate charity  of  deeds;  and  he  was  helpful,  not  alone  in  deeds,  but 
words  of  the  most  winning  friendliness  accompanied  all  his  acts. 

"We  can't  be  far  from  Green  River,"  he  suggested  ten- 
tatively. 

"Something  less  than  forty  miles,  I  should  say,"  Stephen  an- 
swered. " 

Raymond  pondered  this  in  silence  but  when  he  spoke  again, 
he  had  apparently  lost  all  interest  concerning  their  nearness  to 
the  river.  "I've  heard  father  say  when  Brigham  Young  fetched 
the  saints  out  here,  he'd  promised  'em  a  land  leaking  with  milk 
and  honey;  the  land  about  Salt  Lake  looks  as  if  it'll  be  a  right 
smart  while  before  it  does  any  leaking.  The  trouble  with  this  blame 
country  is  there's  too  much  of  it.  I  reckon  it'll  take  a  thousand 
years  to  fill  her  up."  he  speculated  idly. 

"Was  your  father  always  a  Mormon  ?"  Stephen  asked. 

"He  went  into  the  business  about  as  early  as  any  of  'em,  Mr. 
Landray.  He's  always  had  a  gift  for  religion.  He's  tried  'em  all.  He 
was  a  Methodist  to  begin  with,  but  I've  heard  him  say  he  mighty 
early  got  discouraged  with  that  as  a  means  of  grace;  then  he  took  up 
with  the  Millerites,  had  his  robes  ready  and  climbed  up  on  the 
housetop  to  get  his  start  for  the  kingdom  come.  You've  heard  of  the 
Millerites,  I  reckon." 

"Oh,  yes,"  Stephen  said;  he  added,  "Religion  doesn't  seem  to 
have  occupied  your  thoughts  to  any  extent.  I  should  have  imagined, 
with  such  an  example  before  you  — 

"Me  ?  Oh,  no;  I  don't  see  no  reason  for  worry.  I  figure  it  out  this 
way;  I  always  been  lucky,  and  I  sort  of  look  for  some  one  to  snake 
me  in  and  say:  'Why,  how  are  you,  Raymond  ?  I'm  mighty  surprised 
to  see  you  here."' 

"They'll  hardly  say  less  than  that,"  observed  Stephen  drily. 

The  deserter  meditated  in  silence  for  a  moment,  and  when  he  spoke 
again  it  was  with  an  air  of  amiable  tolerance. 

"Yes,  sir,  father  was  so  certain  sure  he'd  never  have  any  more  use 
for  it,  that  he  gave  away  as  good  a  farm  as  ever  lay  out  doors.  He 
wanted  to  feel  that  nothing  was  holding  him  to  earth. " 

"Meaning  no  offence  to  you,  he  was  a  pretty  considerable  fool  to 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN  91 

do  that, "  said  Rogers,  who  had  been  listening  to  the  conversation, 
and  who  now  joined  in  it. 

"No,  you  can't  quite  say  that,  for  he  deeded  it  to  mother;  he 
know'd  he'd  be  pretty  bad  off  if  the  world  didn't  bust  according  to 
prophecy,  and  he  wanted  to  keep  the  property  in  the  family;  though 
I've  heard  him  say  he  was  that  sincere  he'd  made  up  his  mind  that 
just  him  and  a  few  of  his  friends  was  to  be  saved;  he  looked  for  all  the 
rest  to  get  scorched  up  bad;  but  he  was  uncertain  about  having  the 
date  of  the  bust  up  just  right,  and  if  it  went  over  another  season  he 
thought  he'd  like  to  skin  the  farm  for  one  more  corn  crop.  He's 
always  been  powerful  forehanded  in  them  ways.  What  was  this 
millennium  anyhow,  that  old  Bill  Miller  had  him  so  stirred  up  over  ?" 

"I  don't  know  quite  the  sort  of  a  millennium  that  your  father  was 
expecting, "said  Stephen,  "but  I  believe  the  millennium  is  supposed 
to  mean  a  period  which  is  to  last  a  thousand  years,  when  the  world 
will  be  free  of  sin  and  death. " 

"No  deserting  —  no  horse-stealing,"  said  Bushrod. 

"You  got  me  there!"  said  Raymond  pleasantly.  "So  that's  the 
millennium;  it's  a  right  pretty  idea,  ain't  it  ?  But  tedious  I  should 
reckon. " 

"Is  your  father  satisfied  with  Mormonism  ?"  asked  Stephen. 

"Yes,  sir,  and  it's  a  pretty  fair  sort  of  a  religion." 

"How  about  Brigham  Young?"  said  Stephen. 

"Oh,  they're  thick  as  thieves.  Brigham's  right  smart  of  a  schemer, 
too,"  with  gentle  approval.  "There's  no  foolishness  about  him — 
none  whatever." 

"I  suppose  you  are  acquainted  with  Young,  too  ?"  said  Stephen. 

"Me?  Oh,  yes.  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Landray,  the  valley's  no  healthy 
place  unless  you  keep  on  the  right  side  of  him.  I've  heard  father  say 
that  even  after  he'd  been  made  elder,  he  kicked  over  the  traces, 
and  they  had  to  baptise  him  all  over  a  few  times,  to  give  him  a  fresh 
start.  I 'reckon  they  didn't  keep  him  in  long  enough  'airy  time,  if 
I'd  been  doing  the  job  I'd  left  him  in  over  night. " 

While  he  talked  his  glance  had  been  continually  straying  in  the 
direction  of  the  fur  trader.  The  latter's  apparently  earnest  conver- 
sation with  his  companions  had  come  to  an  end,  and  the  two  half- 
breeds  had  stretched  themselves  on  the  ground,  but  Basil  still  sat 
beside  the  camp-fire,  his  pipe  between  his  teeth,  moody  and  solitary. 

The  deserter  hitched  a  little  nearer  Stephen,  and  dropped  his  voice 
to  a  low  whisper. 


92  THE  LANDRAYS 

"I'd  like  mighty  well  to  tie  up  with  you  gentlemen,  and  give  Basil 
yonder  the  slip.  It  was  downright  underhand  of  him  to  run  me  and 
the  breeds  in  on  you  the  way  he  done;  I  was  real  distressed,  honest  I 
was.  It'd  about  serve  him  right  if  you  helped  me  cut  loose;  we  could 
wait  until  we  got  to  the  valley,  and  then  if  you'd  just  furnish  me  with 
a  gun  —  "  He  looked  wistfully  at  the  row  of  rifles  that  leaned  against 
the  wagon-bed,  each  within  easy  reach  of  its  owner's  hand  "and  if 
there  was  any  shooting  to  be  done  —  him,  I  mean  —  I'd  do  it.  Of 
course,  his  being  kin  to  you,  you  wouldn't  just  want  to  do  that  your- 
selves. I'd  want  to  feel  though,  that  you'd  take  care  of  the  half-breeds 
until  I  done  for  Basil.  You  never  can  trust  a  half-breed  anyhow. " 

"You're  not  in  earnest,  Raymond;  you're  surely  not  serious?" 
cried  Stephen,  drawing  away  from  him  in  disgust  and  horror.  The 
deserter  gave  him  a  swift,  searching  glance,  then  he  laughed  easily. 

"Well,  no,  I  ain't.  I  was  joking  —  just  joking. " 

"It  was  a  poor  joke,"  said  Stephen  sternly. 

Raymond  came  slowly  to  his  feet.  "Well,  said  he,  "I'll  turn  in. 
You  couldn't  oblige  me  with  the  loan  of  a  rifle,  if  I  made  up  my  mind 
to  strike  off  for  Fort  Bridger  ? " 

"No,  we  have  no  guns  to  spare,"  said  Stephen  shortly. 

A  look  of  keen  disappointment  appeared  on  the  deserter's  face, 
but  it  swiftly  passed  and  left  him  smiling  and  ingenuous. 

"Good-night,"  he  said. 

The  camp-fire  died  down  until  nothing  remained  of  it  but  a  mass  of 
glowing  embers.  The  teamsters  and  Walsh  had  put  away  their  cards 
and  wrapped  themselves  in  their  blankets;  Bushrod  and  Rogers  had 
followed  their  example;  their  heavy  breathing  told  that  they  already 
slept.  The  night  wind  that  threshed  the  wagon  canvases  blew  raw 
and  cold.  Stephen  took  up  his  rifle  and  made  the  circuit  of  the 
wagons,  looking  closely  to  the  mules  and  horses,  for  the  first  watch 
was  his. 

His  mind  reverted  more  than  once  to  the  questionable  wit  of 
Raymond's  joke,  and  it  occurred  to  him  as  a  thing  to  be  steadily 
borne  in  mind  that  the  Benson  and  California  Mining  and  Trading 
Company  had  chosen  illy  who  should  be  its  friends.  It  would  be  a 
matter  for  deep  thankfulness  when  they  should  reach  Salt  Lake,  and 
could  forever  dispense  with  Basil,  the  half-breeds,  and  the  too- 
smiling  Raymond,  whose  perverted  sense  of  humour  permitted  him  to 
jestingly  propose  a  murder. 

The  camp  was  astir  at  the  first  break  of  day.  The  night  wind  had 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN  93 

blown  itself  out,  and  the  sombre  plains  were  heavy  with  silence.  One 
by  one  the  gold-seekers  shook  themselves  out  of  their  blankets,  and 
without  waste  of  words  began  their  preparation  for  the  day's  journey. 

Rogers  drove  the  mules  to  water  at  a  muddy  hole  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  from  camp  and  beyond  a  slight  ridge.  He  had  just  disappeared 
beyond  this  ridge,  when  the  half-breed,  Louis,  took  two  of  the 
horses,  and  started  after  him  on  the  same  errand.  A  moment  later 
Basil  and  Baptiste  mounted  their 's  and  rode  out  from  camp.  Ray- 
mond lounged  across  to  his  friends. 

"Basil  says  you  can  start  on  if  you  like;  he's  gone  to  see  if  he  can't 
knock  over  a  buffalo  cow,  we're  about  out  of  meat,"  he  explained,  and 
then,  as  if  in  verification  of  his  words,  they  heard  the  sharp  report  of  a 
rifle.  "I  reckon  they've  found  what  they're  looking  for,"  said 
Raymond. 

"I  thought  the  shot  sounded  down  by  the  water-hole,"  said 
Bushrod. 

"Yes,  they  were  going  around  that  way  on  account  of  their  horses. 
Here,  Mr.  Landray,  let  me  give  you  a  hand  with  them  blankets." 
For  Bushrod  was  making  a  roll  of  the  bedding,  preparatory  to  stow- 
ing it  away  in  one  of  the  wagons;  the  others  were  busy  wedging  up  a 
shrunken  wheel. 

An  instant  later  Rogers  appeared  on  the  ridge,  but  without  the 
mules;  he  came  running  toward  them,  with  his  long  rifle  held  in  the 
crook  of  his  arm. 

"I've  done  it!"  he  cried  hoarsely.  " I've  done  it!"  he  repeated, 
when  he  reached  them. 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  No  man  spoke,  for  each  feared 
to  ask  him  what  it  was  that  he  had  done. 

"I  tell  you  I've  done  it,  are  you  dumb?"  he  cried  in  wild  and 
agonized  appeal,  and  he  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  his  friends. 

"What  have  you  done?"  Stephen  asked. 

"I've  killed  him." 

"You've  killed  whom?" 

"Yonder  half-breed.  Damn  his  soul,  he'll  never  get  in  a  white 
man's  way  again  —  he'll  keep  his  place!" 

"You've  murdered  him,  you  mean  ?"  Stephen  spoke  in  a  shocked 
whisper. 

"It  wa'n't  murder,  Landray,  I  swear  to  God  it  wa'n't!  Who  says 
murder  to  me,  I've  always  been  a  fair  man  —  who  says  murder  to 
me  ?"  and  his  wild,  bloodshot  eyes  searched  the  circle  of  white  faces. 


9+  THE  LANDRAYS 

"He'd  a  done  for  me  if  I  hadn't  shot  him.  He  came  down  to  the  hole 
with  his  two  horses;  I  was  ahead  of  him,  but  he  yelled  to  me  to  get 
out  of  his  way;  and  when  I  told  him  he'd  have  to  wait  until  I'd 
watered  my  stock,  he  tried  to  ride  me  down.  I  didn't  lift  a  hand  until 
then." 

Raymond  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"I  wonder  if  that  don't  save  me  a  hundred  and  a  quarter;  they 
certainly  ain't  entitled  to  his  share,  now  are  they  ?"  But  if  they  heard 
him,  no  one  replied  to  the  deserter,  who  continued  to  regard  Rogers 
with  an  envious  admiration.  "The  eternally  condemned  bag  of 
bones,  where'd  he  get  the  heart  for  it  ?"  he  muttered. 

And  then  a  savage  cry  came  from  the  direction  of  the  water-hole, 
telling  that  the  body  had  been  found  by  Basil  and  Baptiste.  Stephen 
turned  to  Rogers. 

"Get  in  one  of  the  wagons,  and  lie  still  —  take  Benny  with  you  — 
and,  no  matter  what  happens,  stay  there!"  to  the  others  he  added: 
"Mind,  right  or  wrong,  we  are  not  going  to  surrender  him  to  them. 
That  would  but  make  a  bad  matter  worse. " 

"What's  your  notion,  Steve  ?"  asked  Bushrod  briskly.  "Hadn't  we 
better  look  sharp  for  the  half-breed  ?" 

"Yes,  but  don't  be  hasty.  I'll  attend  to  Basil." 

"Say,  Mr.  Landray,  if  you'll  give  me  a  gun  I'll  make  the  shot  for 
you. "  said  the  deserter  officiously.  He  was  not  regarded,  but  he  con- 
tinued to  loudly  lament  that  he  was  unarmed. 

Rogers  had  scarcely  disappeared  in  one  of  the  wagons  when  Basil 
and  Baptiste  galloped  into  camp;  they  flung  themselves  from  their 
horses  and  confronted  the  little  group  about  Stephen. 

"Where  is  he?"  Basil  shouted,  seizing  the  latter  by  the  arm. 
"Where's  Rogers  ?  You're  no  kin  tome  unless  you  give  him  up  to  us." 

"Basil,"  said  Stephen  quietly,  falling  back  a  step  and  freeing  him- 
self from  the  other's  clutch,  "it  was  the  result  of  a  quarrel,  the 
fight  was  a  fair  one. " 

"It's  a  lie  —  it  was  murder!"  the  fur  trader  cried  hoarsely. 
"Where  is  he  ?"  and  he  glared  about  him. 

"Where  you  shan't  touch  him." 

"Shan't  ?"  he  raged,  his  black  beard  bristling. 

"No." 

"  Where've  you  hidden  him  ?  " 

"Never  mind.  Where  you  can't  find  him  ?" 

"  Do  you  make  this  you're  affair  ? " 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN  95 

"I  won't  say  that,  but  it  was  self-defence.  If  he  hadn't  shot  the 
Indian,  the  Indian  would  probably  have  shot  him." 

"Who  says  so  ?  Did  you  see  the  fight  ?  Fight  ?"  he  laughed  aloud. 
"Fight  ?  It  was  murder,  cowardly  murder!" 

''No,  we  didn't  see  the  fight,"  Stephen  answered  calmly. 

"Oh,  you  take  his  word,  do  you  ?  Well,  I  don't,"  and  he  started 
toward  the  wagons.  "He's  in  there,  and  by  God,  I'll  have  him  out, 
and  Baptiste  here  shall  settle  with  him!" 

"Dunlevy!  Walsh!"  called  Stephen  sharply. 

The  two  men  stepped  in  front  of  the  fur  trader. 

"Basil,"  said  Stephen,  "we'll  inquire  into  this  when  we're  all 
cooler. " 

"We'll  settle  it  now!"  swore  Basil,  with  a  great  oath. 

"If  he's  done  wrong  he  shall  be  punished;  but  not  by  you,  not  by 
us;  the  law  —  " 

"Damn  the  law!  There's  only  one  law  for  the  plains." 

"We'll  hand  him  over  to  the  commandant  of  the  first  military 
post." 

Rogers,  who  heard  every  word  that  was  said  where  he  lay  in  the 
bed  of  one  of  the  wagons,  with  a  barricade  of  boxes  about  him, 
smiled  grimly  at  this. 

"No  they  won't,  son,"  he  whispered  to  the  boy.  "You  and  me  will 
see  California  for  all  of  them. " 

He  reached  up  over  his  barricade,  and  with  his  hunting-knife  cut 
a  slit  in  the  wagon's  canvas  cover.  The  slit  was  just  large  enough 
to  accommodate  the  muzzle  of  his  rifle. 

But  now  Basil  withdrew  to  his  own  camp,  taking  with  him  the  half- 
breed  and  the  deserter.  The  latter  went  with  him  reluctantly  enough, 
for  he  knew  the  fur  trader  was  in  no  mood  to  tamper  with. 

The  five  men  about  the  wagons  waited,  never  relaxing  their  vigi- 
lance. They  expected  something  would  be  done  or  attempted,  they 
scarcely  knew  what.  They  could  hear  nothing  of  what  passed  be- 
tween Basil  and  his  two  companions,  but  they  saw  that  he  was 
talking  earnestly  with  Raymond.  Twice  the  deserter  turned  and 
looked  toward  them,  finally  he  appeared  to  give  a  satisfactory  an- 
swer to  what  Basil  had  been  saying,  and  the  conference  came  to  an 
end;  they  heard  the  echo  of  his  light  laugh.  He  turned  from  Basil 
and  the  half-breed  and  approached  Stephen,  whom  he  seemed  to  re- 
gard with  a  quickened  interest,  but  the  friendly  smile  never  left  his 
selfish,  good-natured  face. 


96  THE  LANDRAYS 

"Well,  good-bye,"  he  said,  and  extended  his  hand.  "I  reckon  I'll 
have  to  go  with  him  yonder. " 

"Are  you  willing  to  go  with  him  ?"  Stephen  asked. 

"Oh,  yes,"  smiling  evasively.  "Yes,  I'm  plenty  willing  to  go 
with  him,"  he  said. 

"  Because  if  you  have  any  fears  for  your  safety  — 

"No,  I'm  worth  a  heap  more  to  him  alive  than  I  would  be  dead," 
responded  the  deserter  with  an  air  of  complacent  conviction.  He 
added  pleasantly.  "I  reckon,  though,  it's  right  handsome  of  you  to 
want  to  look  out  for  me,  and  me  a  stranger. "  He  dropped  his  voice 
to  a  whisper.  "He'll  calm  down  some;  give  him  time.  I  allow  he  feels 
Baptiste  is  looking  to  him  to  take  on  like  hell,  but  once  he  cuts  loose 
from  you  gentlemen  you  needn't  bother  about  him;  he'll  be  mainly 
interested  in  getting  on  to  California.  Now  if  you  keep  on  about 
due  west  you'll  strike  Green  River  sometime  to-morrow;  after  you 
ford  it,  your  trail  leads  a  little  south  of  west  to  the  Bear. "  He  looked 
hard  at  Stephen. 

"  Thank  you, "  said  the  latter. 

"  Beyond  the  Bear  you  shouldn't  have  any  trouble.  You'll  strike  the 
Weber  next,  and  you  can  just  follow  it  into  the  valley,  crossing 
Kamas  Prairie.  I  know  all  that  country  —  and  don't  worry  none 
about  him,  he  ain't  hunting  trouble.  Well,  good-bye,  and  good 
luck." 

He  rejoined  Basil  and  Baptiste. 

"Why  did  he  tell  us  that  ?"  asked  Bushrod  suspiciously. 

"Just  his  good-nature,"  said  Stephen  indifferently,  and  thought 
no  more  of  the  deserter's  advice  until  it  became  necessary  to  fol- 
low it. 

The  three  men  mounted  their  horses,  and  the  fur  trader  again 
approached  his  cousins.  . 

"Once  more,  will  you  give  him  up  ?"  he  asked. 

But  no  one  answered  him. 

"You  won't  give  him  up,  eh  ?  Well,  look  out,"  and  he  shook 
his  fist  at  them.  "  Look  out,  for  I'll  even  this  before  I'm  done 
with  you. " 

They  heard  his  threat  in  silence,  then  seeing  he  was  not  to  be 
answered,  he  wheeled  about,  and,  followed  by  the  half-breed  and 
Raymond,  crossed  the  ridge  at  a  gallop.  They  stopped  at  the  water- 
hole  just  long  enough  to  lash  the  dead  man  to  his  saddle. 

But  Raymond,  the  deserter,  rode  away  rejoicing  in  the  possession 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN  97 

of  Louis's  rifle  which  Basil  had  given  him.  When  they  had  dis- 
appeared from  sight,  Stephen  said  to  Bingham  and  Dunlevy:  "Go 
down  and  look  up  the  stock;  if  you  find  it's  strayed  from  the  water- 
hole,  come  back  and  we'll  all  turn  out  after  it. " 

Then,  followed  by  Bushrod,  he  went  to  the  wagons  and  called  to 
Rogers.  "They've  gone.  You've  nothing  to  fear,"  he  said.  The  Cali- 
fornian  crawled  stiffly  from  his  place  of  concealment.  His  friends 
were  silent  as  he  emerged  from  the  wagon,  against  which  he  leaned 
for  support. 

"God  knows  it  was  a  fair  fight,  Landray,"  he  said  tremulously,  for 
now,  that  the  sustaining  excitement  was  past,  he  was  like  one  shaken 
with  the  ague.  His  face  was  drawn  and  ghastly,  and  his  dark  eyes 
burnt  with  an  unearthly  light.  "He'd  a  done  for  me  if  I  hadn't  shot 
him.  It  was  him  or  me;  but  it  was  mighty  fair  of  you  to  stand  by 
me." 

"We've  stood  by  you,  but  I'm  not  satisfied,  Rogers,"  said  Stephen 
moodily.  "It's  true  he  was  an  Indian,  and  it  may  be  true,  as  you  say, 
that  you  did  the  shooting  in  self-defence;  I  hope  it  was;  but  you've 
had  bad  blood  for  them  from  the  start. " 

"Bad  blood!  Yes,  curse  them —  and  curse  me!  for  I've  lived  and 
camped  with  them  for  days  and  nights,"  cried  Rogers  fiercely,  glar- 
ing at  Stephen.  "  If  I'd  been  the  man  I  was  once  I'd  a  fetched  it  to  an 
issue  long  ago.  See—  "  he  held  out  a  shaking  hand,  "You  might 
think  from  that,  he  was  the  first.  The  heart's  gone  out  of  me  with  this 
cough  that's  tearing  me  asunder.  It  was  the  Indians  killed  my  wife; 
I  reckon  if  you  stood  in  my  place  now  you'd  wonder  why  the  hell  we 
was  arguing  whether  I  shot  yonder  varment  in  fair  fight  or  not:  She'd 
gone  to  the  corral  —  I'm  telling  you  how  my  wife  died  —  when  I  heard 
her  cry  out,  and  I  ran  to  the  ranch  door.  It  wa'n't  two  hundred  yards 
to  the  coral,  but  it  might  as  well  been  miles  and  she'd  been  no  worse 
off;  for  it  was  surrounded;  and  when  she  ran  shrieking  through  the 
bars,  trying  with  all  the  strength  God  Almighty  had  given  her,  to 
make  the  house,  they  closed  in  about  her  and  I  saw  one  of  them  drive 
his  axe  into  her  brain. "  The  sweat  stood  in  great  beads  on  his  brow. 
"I  saw  I  was  too  late  to  help  her,  and  I  went  back  into  the  house  and 
fastened  the  door,  I  still  had  him  to  think  of-  '  pointing  to  the 
child.  There  was  a  long  pause.  Rogers  gulped  down  something  that 
rose  in  his  throat,  and  went  on:  "Well,  when  the  settlers  who'd  been 
hot  on  their  trail  ever  since  they  broke  loose  on  the  settlement,  come 
tn  and  drove  them  off,  and  pulled  Benny  here  and  me  out  of  the 


98  THE  LANDRAYS 

burning  ranch  house,  they  laid  out  ten  of  the  red  brutes.  I'd  let  the 
daylight  through."  He  threw  up  his  head  defiantly.  "What  the  hell 
do  you  suppose  I  care  for  one  greasy  half-breed!"  and  he  clutched 
the  stock  of  his  gun  with  trembling  fingers.  "For  God's  sake,"  he 
moaned,  "Let's  be  moving.  It  was  only  a  half-breed,  what  the  hell's 
use  quarrelling  about  him.  I've  sent  him  where  he'll  do  no  more 
harm." 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 

THEY  saw  no  more  of  Basil  Landray,  Baptiste,  and  the  too- 
smiling  Raymond,  which  caused  them  some  surprise  at  first; 
for  the  fur  trader's  sinister  threat  at  parting  had  not  sounded 
like  an  empty  menace;  yet  when  a  week  elapsed  they  decided  that  he 
had  spoken  rather  for  the  half-breed  than  to  them. 

"What  can  they  do?"  said  Bushrod  contemptuously.  "I've  been 
looking  for  them  to  take  pot  shots  at  some  of  us;  but  after  all  that 
would  be  a  risky  business." 

"I  wish,"  said  Stephen,  "that  we  might  find  another  way  into 
Salt  Lake;  I  don't  like  this  thing  of  keeping  on  after  them." 

"No,"  said  Rogers  slowly,  as  though  he  were  himself  reluctantly 
abandoning  some  such  idea.  "No,  our  best  chance  is  to  keep  on  as 
we  are  going  until  we  strike  the  head  waters  of  the  Weber.  But  look 
here,  Mr.  Landray,  I  didn't  count  on  seeing  the  last  of  them  so  soon. 
Do  you  reckon  they've  hatched  some  plan  to  hold  us  up  there  in  the 
valley  ? " 

"How  could  they?"  Stephen  demanded.  "You  mean  you  think 
they  may  try  to  hold  us  for  the  murder,"  he  added. 

"Mr.  Landry,  it  wa'n't  no  murder,"  said  Rogers,  deeply  offended 
at  his  unfortunate  choice  of  wprds.  "  I  wouldn't  ask  to  die  no  fairer 
than  he  done." 

"I  didn't  mean  to  say  that,  Rogers,"  said  Stephen  hastily. 

"No,  but  you  think  of  it  as  that,"  retorted  Rogers  bitterly. 

"There's  no  use  of  our  quarrelling  about  it,  Rogers,"  said  Stephen. 
"You  settled  with  him  in  your  own  fashion." 

"I  never  knowed  of  a  case,"  said  Rogers  moodily,  "but  I've 
heard  of  a  white  man  being  tried  for  killing  a  redskin;  and  the  one 
I  shot  was  a  half-breed,  and  so  some  sort  white  just  as  he  was  some 
sort  red." 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  that,"  said  Stephen. 

"Well,"  observed  Rogers,  "three  or  four  days  now  will  bring  us 

99 


ioo  THE  LANDRAYS 

into  the  valley.  Mr.  Landray,  that's  one  redskin  I'm  mighty  sorry  I 
put  out  of  business;  if  I'd  been  at  the  same  pains  to  stave  off  the 
trouble  I  was  to  fetch  it  to  a  head,  or  if  I'd  sort  of  nursed  it  along 
until  we  got  to  the  other  side  of  this  two-wife  country,  it  might  have 
saved  us  a  heap  of  bother." 

Early  the  following  morning  Rogers  was  roused  by  Stephen,  and 
as  he  came  to  consciousness  he  felt  Stephen's  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Turn  out,  Rogers,"  said  Landray.  "One  of  the  mules  has  broken 
its  rope  and  strayed." 

The  Californian  crawled  sleepily  from  among  his  blankets. 

"What  do  you  say  —  the  mules  — 

"The  piebald's  slipped  her  picket  rope." 

"Darn  her  pepper  and  salt  hide  anyhow!"  said  Rogers,  now  wide 
awake.  "I  bet  I  rope  her  to-night  so  she  don't  get  loose." 

"She  can't  have  gone  far  for  she  was  here  when  Bingham  relieved 
me  three  hours  after  midnight." 

It  was  then  just  dawn. 

"Where  are  the  others  ?"  asked  Rogers,  glancing  about. 

"They  have  gone  down  into  the  valley;  suppose  you  take  the 
back  track  up  the  pass  while  I  get  breakfast.  Will  you  ride  ?" 

"No,  it  ain't  likely  she's  strayed  far." 

He  went  back  down  the  pass  narrowly  scanning  the  ground  for 
the  trail  of  the  straying  animal.  A  walk  of  a  mile  brought  him  to  a 
point  where  a  small  canyon  led  off  from  the  pass;  a  high  separating 
wedge-shaped  ridge  lay  between  the  two  defiles,  and  it  occurred  to 
him  that  if  he  climbed  to  the  summit  of  this  ridge  he  would  com- 
mand a  view  of  the  pass  proper  as  well  as  of  the  smaller  canyon. 
He  made  the  ascent  with  some  difficulty  and  gaining  the  top  of  the 
ridge  carefully  scanned  the  pass,  down  which  he  could  look  for  a 
mile  or  more;  then  he  turned  and  found  that  he  was  overlooking  a 
small  valley,  which  but  for  the  canyon  would  have  been  completely 
enclosed  by  a  low  range  of  hills,  beyond  which  but  at  some  distance 
rose  the  grey  flanks  of  the  mountains. 

He  did  not  see  the  lost  mule,  but  he  did  see  something  that  caused 
him  an  exclamation  of  surprise.  Across  the  valley,  and  just  rising 
above  the  low  hill,  what  looked  to  be  a  small  blue  cloud  was  ascend- 
ing lazily  in  the  clear  air.  It  was  smoke;  smoke  from  some  camp-fire; 
and  the  camp-fire  probably  that  of  some  roving  band  of  Indians. 

He  went  down  the  ridge  a  matter  of  half  a  mile,  and  entered  a  thick 
growth  of  service  berry,  aspin,  and  willows;  this  was  so  dense  that 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN  101 

he  no  longer  saw  the  hill  opposite  and  toward  which  he  was  bending 
his  steps.  He  worked  his  way  well  into  the  thicket  and  had  gained 
"the  centre  of  the  narrow  bottom,  when  he  suddenly  became  aware 
that  a  man  or  some  animal  was  crashing  through  the  bush  ahead  of 
him  which  not  only  covered  the  bottom  but  clothed  the  base  of  the 
hill  as  well.  Man  or  beast,  the  disturber  of  that  solitude  was  coming 
forward  rapidly  and  apparently  with  no  attempt  at  concealment, 
for  there  was  a  continual  snapping  of  branches. 

Rogers  paused;  he  could  see  nothing  though  the  sounds  drew 
nearer  each  moment.  He  cautiously  forced  his  way  yet  deeper  into 
the  thicket,  his  gun  cocked  and  swung  forward  ready  for  immediate 
use.  Then  suddenly  he  came  out  upon  an  open  piece  of  ground,  and 
found  himself  looking  squarely  into  the  face  of  the  smiling  Raymond. 
But  the  deserter  was  not  smiling  now.  With  a  startled  cry  he  had 
swung  up  his  rifle  and  presented  its  muzzle  at  Rogers's  breast;  yet 
quick  as  he  was,  the  Californian  had  been  equally  prompt,  his  long 
rifle  was  levelled,  too,  and  his  forefinger  rested  lightly  on  the  trig- 
ger. There  was  this  difference,  however,  the  hammer  of  the  deserter's 
gun  still  covered  the  cap.  It  forever  settled  a  most  important  question. 

"Drop  it!"  said  Rogers  quietly  between  his  teeth;  and  Raymond, 
whose  face  was  grey  and  drawn,  and  whose  eyes  never  left  the  Cali- 
fornian's  eyes,  instantly  opened  his  hands  and  the  gun  dropped  at 
his  feet.  By  a  quick  movement  Rogers  kicked  it  to  one  side.  There 
was  a  long  moment  while  the  two  men,  breathing  hard,  glared  at 
each  other.  It  was  the  deserter  who  spoke  first. 

"Why,  Mr.  Rogers,"  he  said  in  a  shaken  whisper,  "I  wa'n't 
counting  on  seeing  you." 

"I  bet  you  wa'n't,"  said  Rogers  briefly,  but  with  grim  sarcasm; 
and  moving  forward  a  step  he  kicked  Raymond's  rifle  yet  further 
into  the  brush. 

There  ensued  an  ominous  silence.  A  tortured  sickly  smile  seemed 
to  snatch  at  the  corners  of  the  deserter's  mouth,  but  it  was  past  his 
power  to  fix  it  there;  it  left  him  loose-lipped,  gaping  helplessly  down 
the  muzzle  of  Rogers's  long  rifle.  He  was  struggling  with  a  terrible 
fear  that  the  Californian  might  make  some  sudden  and  deadly  use 
of  his  weapon.  He  remembered  how  they  had  found  the  half-breed 
with  the  single  round  hole  in  his  hunting-shirt  attesting  to  the  excel- 
lence  of  his  slayer's  markmanship. 

"Why  don't  you  shoot  ?"  he  cried  at  last  in  agony. 

"Hold  your  jaw!"  said  Rogers  in  a  savage  whisper. 


ro2  THE  LANDRAYS 

"If  you're  going  to  shoot,  why  don't  you  ?"  the  deserter  demanded 
with  hoarse,  dry-throated  rage. 

"I  reckon  that's  something  I'll  take  my  time  to,"  said  Rogers 
calmly.  "Maybe  I'll  shoot  and  maybe  I  won't.  I'm  thinking  about 
it  —  hard.  Fall  back  a  step,  I  got  no  hankering  for  your  company. 
There,  that'll  do,  and  if  you  so  much  as  raise  your  voice  again  — 
he  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  but  tapped  the  stock  of  his  rifle  with 
sinister  significance.  There  was  another  pause  and  then  Rogers  said 
more  mildly,  "I  reckon  you  can  tell  me  how  you  happen  to  be  here." 

Raymond  took  grace  of  his  altered  tone;  with  a  final  desperate 
twitching  of  the  lips  the  smile  fixed  itself  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 
"You  pretty  nearly  took  my  breath  away,"  he  faltered. 

"You're  right  there,  I  did,"  said  Rogers  with  sudden  ferocity. 

Raymond  smiled  vaguely.  To  the  very  marrow  of  his  bones  he 
feared  this  gaunt  captor  of  his. 

"Quick  now,"  said  Rogers  sternly,  "what  are  you  doing  here  ?" 

"Well,  you  see  I've  give  Basil  the  slip  — 

"That's  a  lie,"  retorted  Rogers.  "Whose  smoke  is  that  off  yonder 
back  of  you  ?" 

"I  reckon  you  mean  my  camp-fire." 

"That's  another  lie.  Some  one's  been  throwing  on  wood,  green 
wood,  since  we  been  standing  here,"  said  Rogers  with  an  ugly  grin. 
"Look  and  see  —  the  smoke'll  tell  you  that  as  plain  as  it  tells  me." 

"You're  plumb  suspicious,  Mr.  Rogers,  it's  my  camp;  ain't  I 
always  been  a  friend  ?" 

"You  ain't  friend  to  no  man,  unless  it  be  to  yourself,  that's  my 
idea  of  you,"  said  Rogers. 

"It's  my  camp-fire  I  tell  you  — 

"Yes,  and  Basil's  there,  and  the  half-breed's  there,"  he  took  his 
eyes  off  Raymond's  face,  and  for  the  first  time  noticed  that  he  had 
exchanged  his  ragged  uniform  for  an  excellent  suit  of  grey  home- 
spun. "You've  crossed  the  range  and  been  down  into  the  valley. 
Now  what  are  you  doing  here  on  the  back  track  when  you  were  all 
so  keen  for  trying  your  luck  in  California  ?" 

"Well,"  said  the  deserter  with  a  quick  shift  of  ground,  "maybe 
Basil  is  there,  and  maybe  the  half-breed  is  there;  what  does  it  sig- 
nify?" 

"Why  are  you  following  us  ?" 

But  at  this  Raymond  shook  his  head  vehemently.  "Following 
you  —  and  why'd  we  be  following  you  ?  I'll  tell  you  the  truth,  fact 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN  103 

is,  sometimes  it  gravels  me  to  tell  the  truth;  but  with  a  friend  — 
we're  taking  a  party  of  Saints  back  to  the  Missouri.  There  was 
money  in  the  job,  and  darn  California  anyhow;  it's  a  long  way  off, 
and  they  say  in  the  valley  the  bottom's  dropped  clean  out  of  this  here 
gold  business.  It's  all  rank  foolishness,  they  are  beginning  to  come 
back,  and  the  Saints  are  feeding  them  and  helping  them  on  toward 
the  States;  we  mighty  soon  got  shut  of  that  notion  when  we'd  seen 
and  talked  with  a  few  of  them  that'd  crossed  to  the  Coast;  and  when 
Young  offered  to  hire  us  to  take  a  score  of  his  missionaries  to  the 
Missouri  we  jumped  at  the  chance." 

"You  daren't  go  near  Fort  Laramie,"  said  Rogers,  but  his  the- 
ories as  to  what  had  brought  Raymond  there  had  been  rather  shaker 
by  the  excellent  account  he  was  now  giving  of  himself. 

"I  wa'n't  aware  I  said  I  was  going  near  the  fort.  No,  sir,  we're 
going  out  the  way  we  come  in.  We  allow  to  hit  the  trail  a  hundred 
miles  the  other  side  of  old  Laramie." 

Rogers  looked  at  him  doubtfully,  yet  he  was  almost  inclined  to 
believe  that  it  was  as  he  said,  that  the  first  rush  of  emigration 
might  have  encountered  a  few  discouraged  ones  who  had  gone  into 
California  the  preceding  fall,  and  who  having  been  unfortunate 
were  making  the  best  of  their  way  back  to  the  States  —  this  might 
even  have  resulted  in  a  stampede  among  the  emigrants.  He  recalled 
how  the  fear  of  the  cholera  had  turned  back  thousands  before  a 
quarter  of  their  journey  had  been  completed. 

With  his  shifty  eyes  narrowed  to  a  slit,  the  deserter  watched  the 
Californian.  He  could  see  something  of  what  was  passing  in  his 
mind  and  he  could  guess  the  rest;  yet  when  he  spoke  again  he  said, 

"I  reckon  you  don't  take  any  great  stock  in  what  I'm  telling  you; 
come  up  to  the  top  of  yonder  ridge  and  you  can  see  our  camp,  and 
that  it's  exactly  as  I  say." 

This  was  the  very  thing  Rogers  had  resolved  on  doing. 

"I'm  going  with  you  all  right,  but  look  here,  if  you  so  much  as 
make  a  sign  or  a  sound,  to  let  'em  know  we're  close  at  hand,  I'm 
going  to  blow  the  top  of  your  head  off.  Here,  walk  before  me,  and 
heed  every  word  I  say.  If  I  find  you're  telling  me  the  truth  about  its 
being  a  party  of  Mormon  missionaries,  I'll  bring  you  back  here  and 
turn  you  loose.  We'll  leave  your  gun  here." 

"That's  fair  enough,"  said  Raymond  genially.  "Well  I  certainly 
am  proud  to  see  you,  though  I  took  you  for  a  redskin  first  oft; 
lucky  you  spoke  —  " 


104  THE  LANDRAYS 

"I  allow  it  was  a  sight  luckier  for  me  I  got  you  covered  first/' 
said  Rogers  sourly.  "Go  ahead  now,  and  mind  you,  no  noise." 

It  was  evident,  however,  that  the  deserter  felt  he  had  quite  as 
much  at  stake  as  Rogers  himself,  for  he  advanced  cautiously  through 
the  thicket  that  clothed  the  base  of  the  hill.  Rogers  followed  him 
with  his  rifle  held  ready  for  instant  use,  but  no  thought  was  further 
from  Raymond's  mind  than  betrayal.  At  first  he  had  felt  the  des- 
perate need  of  some  explanation,  that  would  account  for  his  pres- 
ence there;  and  the  story  he  had  finally  told  had  seemed  to  him  to 
cover  the  case  and  to  leave  no  reasonable  room  for  doubt  in  Rogers's 
mind. 

As  they  neared  the  top  of  the  ridge  he  threw  himself  flat  on  his 
stomach  and  wormed  his  way  up  toward  its  broken  crest,  and  Rogers 
keeping  close  at  his  heels  followed  his  example.  He  gained  the  crest, 
and  peering  about  the  base  of  a  stunted  pine,  found  that  he  was 
looking  down  into  a  snug  pocket  of  the  hills,  and  so  close  to  the  camp 
that  he  might  have  tossed  his  cap  into  it,  though  it  lay  far  below  him. 
He  counted  eighteen  or  twenty  picketed  horses;  a  number  of  men 
were  moving  about,  and  a  glance  told  him  they  were  white  men.  He 
looked  long  and  earnestly,  and  then  turned  to  Raymond  with  a 
frankly  puzzled  expression.  The  deserter  was  smiling  and  triumph- 
ant. 

"Want  I  should  take  you  into  camp  ?"  he  asked  in  an  eager  whis- 
per, but  Rogers  shook  his  head;  he  was  not  convinced,  yet  why  and 
what  he  doubted  was  more  than  he  could  have  told. 

"We'll  go  back,"  he  said  at  last.  "Go  first;"  and  they  descended 
the  ridge  in  silence.  Rogers  was  vainly  seeking  to  fit  some  explana- 
tions to  the  mystery,  beyond  Raymond's  words.  When  they  reached 
the  scene  of  their  original  encounter,  he  paused  for  an  instant. 

"I  reckon  you'll  have  to  go  on  with  me  for  a  little  spell  before  I 
turn  you  loose,"  he  said.  "No,  you  can  come  back  here  and  get  your 
gun  when  I'm  through  with  you,"  and  he  laughed  shortly. 

"Oh,  all  right,"  said  Raymond  cheerfully.  "It's  just  as  you 
say." 

"You  bet  it's  as  I  say,"  and  he  motioned  the  deserter  to  precede 
him  again. 

They  crossed  the  ridge  that  lay  between  them  and  the  pass. 

"I  reckon  this'll  do,"  said  Rogers.  "I  sha'n't  want  you  to  go  any 
further.  Look  here,  the  Landrays  treated  you  all  right." 

"They  did  indeed,"  said  Raymond  gratefully. 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN  105 

"Well,  what  are  those  men  yonder  in  camp  for?" 
"I  just  got  through  telling  you  that,  Mr.  Rogers,"  responded 
Raymond  with  an  injured  air.  "The  outfit's  bound  for  the  States. 
Old  Brigham  reckons  you  godless  cusses  back  East  need  some  con- 
verting; that's  what  he's  up  to,  and  I'm  helping  rush  'em  to  the 
•        » 
river. 

"I'm  pretty  certain  you're  lying  whatever  you  say,"  observed 
Rogers. 

"Well,  sir,  I've  fooled  people  telling  them  the  truth,"  retorted 
Raymond.  "But  that  was  their  own  fault." 

"I  reckon  maybe  that's  so,"  said  Rogers. 

"This  is  a  mighty  one-sided  conversation  anyway  you  look  at  it," 
said  the  deserter  pleasantly,  and  smiling  without  offence.  "No,  sir, 
I'm  telling  you  God  Almighty's  truth,  they  are  Mormon  mission- 
aries going  back  to  the  States." 

"Well,  whatever  they  are,  I  sha'n't  want  you  any  more;  you  can 
travel  back  to  'em  as  fast  as  you  like;  but  look  here,  you  see  that 
none  of  them  don't  stray  in  the  direction  I'm  going."  And  the  Cali- 
fornian  moved  off  up  the  pass. 

"Good  luck,  Mr.  Rogers!"  the  deserter  called  after  him,  and  then 
he  began  leisurely  to  climb  the  ridge. 

When  Rogers  reached  the  camp  he  saw  that  the  mule  had  been 
found  and  that  the  teams  were  made  up  and  ready  to  start. 

"What's  kept  you  so  long?"  asked  Stephen. 

"I  was  following  what  I  took  to  be  old  piebald's  trail,"  answered 
Rogers. 

At  first  he  had  been  undecided  as  to  whether  or  not  he  should 
tell  the  others  of  his  encounter  with  Raymond;  but  he  had  finally 
determined  to  say  nothing  of  this  meeting.  Silent  and  preoccupied  he 
took  his  place  in  one  of  the  wagons,  seeking  some  excuse  for  Ray- 
mond's presence  so  close  at  hand,  beyond  that  which  the  deserter 
had  himself  given. 

Their  trail  first  led  across  a  narrow  valley,  and  then  they  entered 
the  pass  again,  which  with  each  slow  mile  mounted  to  a  higher  alti- 
tude; but  by  the  middle  of  the  morning  it  seemed  to  have  reached 
its  greatest  elevation,  for  on  beyond  them  it  wound  down  and  down, 
opening  at  last  into  a  wide  level  valley  lying  in  a  vast  amphitheatre 
of  hills  and  mountains. 

"Mr.  Landray,  I  don't  know  but  I'd  like  to  ride  your  horse  for  a 
spell,"  said  Rogers. 


io6  THE  LANDRAYS 

"You'll  find  it  much  cooler  in  the  wagon,"  said  Stephen. 

"It  is  hot,"  agreed  the  Californian,  wiping  the  sweat  from  his 
face. 

Nevertheless  he  swung  himself  into  the  saddle,  and  fell  in  at  the 
rear  of  the  wagons;  and  then  he  increased  the  distance  that  sepa- 
rated him  from  the  train/from  a  few  yards  to  almost  half  a  mile,  keep- 
ing his  horse  at  the  slowest  walk.  Once  or  twice  in  the  last  hour 
before  their  brief  noon  halt,  he  thought  he  heard  the  distant  clatter 
of  hoofs  in  the  pass  back  of  him,  but  he  dismissed  this  as  a  mere 
nervous  fancy.  A  little  after  midday  they  entered  the  valley.  For  a 
matter  of  two  miles  they  toiled  forward  over  a  perfectly  level  plain, 
barren  and  bare  of  all  useful  vegetation. 

Stephen  who  was  in  the  first  wagon  reined  in  his  mules  to  say, 
"We'll  let  our  teams  have  a  few  minutes  rest." 

"I'd  push  ahead,  Mr.  Landray;  I  wouldn't  waste  no  time  here," 
said  Rogers  anxiously,  as  he  rode  up. 

"In  just  a  moment,  Rogers  —  hullo!  what's  that  ?" 

He  was  looking  toward  the  point  where  they  had  entered  the  val- 
ley. Rogers  turned  quickly  and  saw  that  a  number  of  small  black 
objects  were  emerging  from  the  pass;  distant  as  they  were,  all 
knew  they  were  mounted  men. 

"What  do  you  make  them  out  to  be  ?"  Stephen  asked. 

"I  reckon  I  don't  know  and  I  reckon  I  don't  care.  Do  you  see  that 
bit  of  a  hill  ahead  of  us  ?  There's  water  and  grass  somewhere  near 
there;  push  on  for  that." 

He  fell  in  at  the  rear  of  the  last  wagon,  and  the  look  of  indifference 
his  face  had  worn  a  moment  before  vanished  the  instant  he  was 
alone.  He  rode  in  silence  for  perhaps  five  minutes  with  his  face 
turned  toward  the  black  dots.  He  never  once  took  his  eyes  from 
them. 

"Faster!"  he  called.  "Push  the  mules!" 

Now  the  black  objects  had  become  individual,  separate;  they  were 
men  who  rode  in  open  order,  and  as  they  rode  they  spread  out  in  a 
half-circle  that  swept  momentarily  nearer  the  train.  Presently  he 
caught  the  hoof  beats  of  the  swiftly  galloping  horses,  now  loud, 
now  scarcely  audible  in  the  sultry  stillness;  and  then  it  became  a 
steady  beat  like  the  rattle  of  hail  on  frozen  ground;  the  beat  and 
throb  of  his  own  pulse  took  up  and  magnified  the  rhythm  until  his 
temples  ached  with  the  sound. 

"Faster!"  he  called  again.  "Faster  yet!  Give  them  the  rawhide!" 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN  107 

But  his  companions  knew  now  why  he  urged  greater  speed;  and 
the  long  lashes  of  their  whips  fell  again  and  again  on  the  backs  of 
the  straining  mules. 

"We  must  make  that  hill  —  don't  let  them  cut  us  off  from  it!" 
cried  Rogers,  as  he  reined  in  his  horse  and  faced  about;  he  dropped 
the  butt  of  his  rifle  to  his  shoulder  and  sent  a  bullet  in  the  direction 
of  their  pursuers. 

As  the  first  shot  vibrated  sharply  across  the  plains  the  norsemen 
were  seen  to  draw  rein,  but  this  was  only  for  a  brief  instant,  and 
then  the  race  for  the  hill  was  begun  afresh,  and  with  renewed  energy. 
The  huge  wagons  lurched  to  and  fro,  tossed  like  ships  in  a  seaway, 
the  mules  at  a  gallop;  while  Rogers,  a  spectral  figure,  his  long  hair 
flying  in  the  wind,  hung  in  the  rear  of  the  train,  or  rode  back  and 
forth  menacing  their  pursuers. 

"Keep  off!"  he  called,  and  sent  a  second  messenger  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  horsemen;  this  at  closer  range  than  the  first  seemed  to 
find  a  mark,  for  one  was  seen  to  sway  in  his  saddle,  and  there  was 
a  momentary  pause  in  their  onward  rush  as  his  companions  gathered 
about  the  wounded  man. 

"I  can  shoot  yet!"  said  Rogers  with  grim  joy,  He  loaded  his  rifle 
again  with  a  deliberation  and  care  no  peril  could  shake,  then  he  felt 
his  horse's  forefeet  strike  rising  ground,  and  glanced  about;  he  had 
reached  the  base  of  the  hill,  he  turned  again  in  the  saddle,  fired,  and 
without  waiting  to  see  the  effect  of  his  shot,  drove  his  spurs  into  his 
horse's  flank  and  fled  forward  after  the  wagons. 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 

THE  wagons  were  arranged  in  a  triangle  on  the  hill,  and  their 
wheels  chained  together.  Into  this  enclosure  the  mules  were 
hastily  driven  and  secured.  While  Bushrod,  assisted  by  the 
teamsters  and  Walsh,  was  busy  preparing  this  defence,  Stephen  and 
Rogers  stood  ready  to  repel  any  advance  on  the  part  of  the  horse- 
men; but  having  failed  to  cut  the  train  off  on  the  open  plain  they 
circled  once  or  twice  about  the  base  of  the  hill,  taking  care,  however, 
to  keep  well  out  of  gun-shot  range;  then  they  separated  into  two 
bands,  one  of  which  rode  rapidly  off  toward  the  west,  while  the 
other  remained  in  the  vicinity  of  the  hill,  withdrawing  after  a  little 
time  to  a  distance  of  perhaps  half  a  mile. 

Stephen  and  Rogers  had  watched  their  movements  closely  and  in 
silence;  now  Landray  turned  to  the  Californian:  "What  does  that 
mean  ?"  he  asked. 

Rogers  shook  his  head.  He  looked  at  Stephen  as  if  he  expected 
him  to  say  something  more,  but  evidently  no  suspicion  had  entered 
the  latter's  mind;  yet  to  the  Californian  the  disguise  was  so  appar- 
ent that  he  wondered  at  this.  A  few  fluttering  blankets  and  a  smear 
of  red  dirt  would  never  have  deceived  him;  the  silence  they  had 
maintained  with  never  a  shout  nor  shot  as  they  spurred  in  pursuit 
of  the  wagons,  was  characteristic  of  men  who  saw  no  glory  in  mere 
murder,  though  they  might  be  keenly  desirous  of  the  profits  it  could 
be  made  to  yield. 

"What  are  they  doing,  Steve?"  Bushrod  asked,  stepping  to  his 
brother's  side. 

"They  seem  to  be  waiting." 

"They  act  as  though  they  had  pocketed  us  and  could  finish  this 
business  in  their  own  way  and  time,"  said  Bushrod,  with  a  troubled 
laugh. 

"I  reckon  that  won't  come  any  too  easy  to  their  hands,"  said 
Rogers  quietly. 

108 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN  109 

"Look  here,"  said  Bushrod,  "what  do  you  say  to  my  banking  up 
the  earth  under  the  wagons  ?" 

"It's  an  excellent  idea;  I'd  do  it,"  said  Stephen. 

"Come,"  said  Rogers,  "lets  you  and  me  take  a  look  around,  Mr. 
L  andray.  I  reckon  they're  in  no  hurry  to  try  this  hill,  I  wouldn't  be 
if  I  was  them."  They  crossed  the  barricade,  and  inspected  their  sur- 
roundings. The  top  of  the  hill  was  perfectly  flat,  and  an  acre  or  more 
in  extent;  beyond  this  level  space  the  ground  fell  gently  away  to  the 
plain  below. 

"It's  right  smart  of  a  place  for  a  fight,"  remarked  Rogers,  after  a 
brief  glance  about. 

Stephen  nodded;  he  admitted  to  himself  that  with  such  an  enemy 
the  spot  had  its  own  peculiar  advantages;  he  could  believe  that  they 
might  hold  it  for  an  almost  indefinite  period,  even  against  much 
greater  odds.  His  memory  reverted  to  the  glories  of  the  freshly  fought 
fields  of  Texas  and  Mexico:  Odds  ?  What  had  odds  meant  in  the  past 
to  the  men  of  America;  and  what  were  they  still  meaning  on  a  thou- 
sand miles  of  lonely  frontier  ? 

To  the  west,  near  the  base  of  the  mountains,  a  fringe  of  cotton- 
woods  and  willows  marked  a  water  course;  there  the  herbage  of  the 
plain  was  a  richer  green.  Stephen  almost  fancied  he  could  seen  the 
water  sparkling  among  the  trees,  then  he  remembered  that  their 
own  supply  was  wholly  exhausted.  Rogers  seemed  to  understand 
what  was  passing  in  his  mind;  he  touched  him  on  the  arm. 

"We  could  never  have  made  it,  Mr.  Landray,"  he  said  regretfully. 
"They'd  have  cut  us  off  in  the  open." 

The  horsemen  who  had  ridden  away  toward  the  west  were  now 
nearing  the  cottonwoods.  Rogers  turned  from  regarding  them  to 
look  at  the  forted  wagons. 

"Your  brother  '11  fix  the  camp  snug  enough.  I  reckon  after  he  gets 
finished  we  can  make  it  hot  for  the  redskin  who  thinks  his  road  lays 
across  the  top  of  this  hill." 

"You  have  told  me  of  these  fights;  what  chance  have  we  ?"  asked 
Stephen  gravely. 

"No  twenty  men  that  ever  lived  can  cross  them  wagon  poles 
unless  we  are  willing  they  should." 

"But  why  should  they  attempt  that  when  they  can  keep  us  here 
on  a  strain  until  our  powder  and  lead  is  exhausted,  or  the  need  of 
water  forces  us  to  abandon  the  hill  ?" 

"I  reckon  that'll  be  their  game;  but  see  here,  by  the  time  our  guns 


i io  THE  LANDRAYS 

are  silent  we  may  have  them  pretty  considerably  crippled  up.  I 
needn't  tell  you  that  twenty  men  in  the  open  against  six  with  good 
cover  like  we  got,  have  their  work  ahead  of  them." 

"Look!"  cried  Stephen,  pointing. 

On  the  edge  of  the  cottonwoods  which  they  had  just  reached,  the 
horsemen  were  joined  by  a  much  larger  party  which  suddenly  rode 
out  of  the  timber. 

"We  reckoned  'em  too  quick  and  too  few,"  said  Rogers  simply. 
"There's  forty  or  fifty  of  the  varments." 

The  horsemen  were  now  galloping  toward  the  hill.  Rogers  watched 
them  in  silence,  then  turned  again  to  Stephen. 

"Good  God!  Mr.  Landray,  don't  you  see  no  difference?"  the 
Californian  demanded  almost  angrily.  Stephen's  lack  of  all  suspicion 
was  too  much  for  him. 

"There  is  a  difference  in  dress,  if  that  is  what  you  mean." 

"Yes,  that;  and  do  you  note  the  size  of  their  horses  ?" 

"They  are  smaller  certainly." 

"I  wa'n't  going  to  let  you  know,  but  it's  a  heap  easier  to  be  fair 
with  you;  those  down  yonder's  white  men;  this  new  lot's  Indians  — 
there's  no  mistaking  that." 

"What!"  cried  Stephen  in  astonishment. 

"It's  Basil  and  Raymond  and  some  cutthroats  from  the  valley 
trigged  out  to  look  like  redskins." 

"Nonsense,  Rogers,  that's  the  wildest  surmise;  how  can  you  know 
that?" 

"You  don't  believe  me.  Well,  I  seen  him." 

"You  saw  whom  ?  Basil  ?" 

"No,  Raymond." 

"  The  deserter  —  when  ? " 

"This  morning;"  and  Rogers  told  him  in  the  fewest  words  of  his 
meeting  with  Raymond.  "I  allow  they're  mainly  after  me,  and  I 
reckon  you  can  make  some  sort  of  terms  by  handing  me  over  to  them. 
I  ain't  saying  but  what  it  would  be  right  for  you  to  do  this;  you  got 
your  folks  back  East  to  think  about;  I  only  got  Benny;  I  reckon 
you'll  look  out  for  him.  My  first  notion  was  to  let  matters  stand  until 
we'd  put  our  mark  on  a  few  of  them,  knowing  it  would  be  too  late  to 
do  anything  then." 

"No,"  said  Stephen,  "if  it's  so,  if  it's  Basil,  he's  wanting  more 
than  revenge;  he  knows  we  have  a  large  sum  of  money  with  us." 

"Well,  I  allow  we've  both  made  a  few  mistakes,"  said  Rogers. 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN  in 

He  added,  "I'm  ready  to  do  what's  right.  Give  me  your  horse,  and 
I'll  make  a  dash  for  the  hills.  You  can  tell  'em  you've  turned  me  out 
of  camp." 

But  Stephen  shook  his  head.  "Why,  man,  we  wouldn't  think  of 
that!"  he  said  earnestly. 

Above  the  mountain  tops  the  sun  was  sinking,  filling  the  grey  plain 
with  floods  of  glorious  gold  and  violet.  Rogers  took  off  his  hat 
and  faced  the  west;  his  mouth  twitched  and  his  look  of  resolution 
softened. 

"This  is  mighty  decent  in  you,  Mr.  Landray,  it  is  so.  I  ain't 
saying  much,  but  Benny  and  me  won't  forget  this  in  many  a  long 
day."  and  he  held  out  his  hand.  "Maybe  it  is  the  money  they're 
after,  as  you  say;  I  reckon  it  is,  for  they've  undertaken  right  smart 
of  a  contract  just  to  get  even  with  me  for  killing  that  half-breed." 

The  two  bands  had  now  united,  and  after  a  brief  parley,  charged 
down  on  the  hill  with  loud  yells.  Stephen  and  Rogers  withdrew  from 
their  exposed  position  and  sought  the  shelter  of  the  barricade. 

"There's  no  need  of  throwing  away  ammunition,"  said  Rogers, 
surveying  the  little  group  that  formed  about  him.  "There'll  be  plenty 
of  noise,  but  you'll  get  used  to  that.  Hear  the  vermin  yell!" 

His  first  thought  was  of  Benny.  He  hid  the  child  away  in  a  safe 
place. 

"Is  this  an  Indian  fight,  pop?  And  is  them  real  live  Indians?" 
the  child  asked  eagerly,  as  he  nestled  down  in  the  nook  his  father 
had  found  for  him. 

"I  allow  some  of  them  will  presently  be  dead  Indians,  son," 
answered  his  father  hopefully.  "You  pray  that  your  old  daddy's 
aim  may  be  what  it  used  to  be,  for  he  wants  mightily  to  fetch  you  and 
him  out  of  this  with  a  whole  hide  apiece."  and  repeating  his  injunc- 
tion to  Benny  to  lie  very  still,  he  rejoined  his  companions. 

A  glance  sufficed,  and  the  experienced  eye  of  the  frontiersman 
told  him  that  as  yet  little  harm  had  been  done  by  his  companions 
fire,  though  it  had  served  to  keep  the  Indians  at  a  respectful 
distance. 

In  spite  of  the  presence  of  their  white  associates,  the  tactics  of 
these  latter  did  not  differ  materially  from  what  they  must  have  been 
had  they  been  alone.  They  circled  about  the  hill  evidently  keenly 
sensible  of  the  fact  that  there  existed  a  zone  of  deadly  peril  into 
which  it  was  not  wise  to  venture;  on  the  outer  edge  of  this  they  hung 
with  noisy  zeal,  and  it  was  only  when  some  one  of  their  number 


ii2  THE  LANDRAYS 

more  daring  and  reckless  than  his  fellows  dashed  in  toward  the 
wagons,  that  the  men  on  the  hill  levelled  their  rifles;  but  they 
were  not  long  in  discovering  that  these  displays  of  prowess  were 
more  than  likely  to  be  attended  by  fatal  consequences;  for  twice 
Rogers  stopped  them  in  mid  career;  once  Bushrod  was  similarly 
successful;  he  killed  the  pony  and  crippled  the  Indian;  then  as 
he  showed  a  disinclination  to  fire  on  a  wounded  man,  Rogers 
who  had  withheld  his  hand  out  of  consideration  for  what  he 
conceived  to  be  his  friend's  rights  in  the  matter,  made  the  shot  for 
him. 

"That's  three!"  he  cried  in  high  good  humour.  "I  tell  you,  Lan- 
dray,  you  mustn't  hang  back  from  giving  them  their  full  dose.  It's 
them  or  us,  and  I'm  all  in  favour  of  it  being  them," 

"How  long  will  this  last?"  asked  Bushrod,  crouching  at  his  el- 
bow. "Why  don't  they  come  in  where  we  can  get  at  them  ?" 

"It's  their  notion  of  fighting;  they'll  draw  off  when  night  falls." 

"I  suppose  there  is  no  hope  of  their  drawing  off  entirely  ?" 

"Not  until  they've  had  a  fair  try  at  us." 

While  he  was  speaking  his  gun  had  been  thrust  cautiously  over 
the  top  of  the  barricade,  and  fired  at  a  savage  who  had  ventured 
within  easy  range,  but  the  light  was  now  uncertain  and  the  bullet 
sped  wide  of  its  mark.  With  a  muttered  oath  he  turned  to  Bushrod. 
But  before  Landray  could  bring  his  rifle  to  bear  on  the  savage  the 
latter's  gun  was  discharged,  and  Dunlevy  at  the  opposite  side  of  the 
barricade  rose  from  his  knees  with  a  startled  cry,  spun  round  once 
and  fell  back  among  the  mules.  Walsh  who  was  nearest  him,  turned 
a  white  scared  face  on  Stephen. 

"Poor  Dunlevy's  hurt  I  think!  Won't  you  help  him,  Mr.  Lan- 
dray ?  I  can't,  the  sight  of  his  blood  makes  me  ill." 

But  Rogers  had  already  crept  to  the  teamster's  side;  he  reached 
•out  a  hand  and  pushed  the  boy  back  in  his  place. 

"Never  mind  him,  you  keep  out  of  sight,"  he  said  quietly. 

"Do  you  mean  he's  dead!"  cried  Walsh. 

Here  Bushrod  Landray 's  warning  cry  recalled  the  Californian  to 
his  post. 

"They  seem  to  be  forming  for  a  charge,"  he  said. 

"And  they're  nearer  than  they  need  be,"  rejoined  Rogers,  throwing 
his  rifle  to  his  shoulder.  The  group  melted  away  at  the  flash,  but  one 
of  the  savages  tumbled  from  his  saddle  and  lay  as  he  had  fallen 
until  one  of  his  friends  crept  up  on  hands  and  knees  and  dragged 


CHAPTER   FIFTEEN  1.3 

the  body  off;  at  him  the  Californian  fired  again,  but  apparently 
without  effect. 

"The  varments  will  fetch  away  their  dead  and  wounded  every 
time  if  they  can!"  he  said. 

"Dunlevy  was  killed  outright?"  asked  Landray. 

"Yes,  he  wa'n't  much  of  a  shot,  and  he  would  raise  his  head  to 
see  what  was  going  on.  I  heard  your  brother  tell  him  more  than  once 
to  keep  down,"  said  Rogers  resentfully. 

The  fight  continued  until  the  sun  sank  beyond  the  ragged  lines  of 
peaks;  and  its  glory  turned  first  to  grey  and  then  deepened  into  twi- 
light; a  twilight  through  which  the  horsemen  moved  vaguely  like 
shadows;  then  suddenly  the  attack  ceased;  the  brisk  volleys  dwindled 
to  a  few  straggling  shots,  and  silence  usurped  the  place  of  sound, 
silence  absolute  and  supreme.  Bushrod  turned  to  Rogers  who  rose 
slowly  and  stood  erect.  "I  reckon  it's  over  until  daylight  comes 
again,"  he  said. 

They  lifted  Dunlevy  into  one  of  the  wagons  and  drew  his  blanket 
over  his  face.  Now  that  the  excitement  of  the  day  was  past,  a  deadly 
weariness  had  come  upon  them;  they  were  oppressed  and  silent; 
they  ached  like  men  who  had  been  bruised  and  beaten.  Looking  about 
them  they  saw  things  that  they  had  not  seen  before;  two  of  their 
mules  were  dead,  and  three  others  wounded,  the  wagon  covers  were 
in  tatters.  They  seemed  hours  away  from  the  fight  in  point  of  time, 
and  yet  their  ears  still  roared  with  the  sound  of  crashing  volleys,  the 
clatter  of  hoofs,  a  medley  of  yells  and  shrieks;  yet  while  these  sounds 
had  been  in  actual  continuance  they  had  scarcely  heard  them. 

When  they  had  eaten  a  few  cold  mouthfuls.  Rogers  said: 

"I'm  going  to  take  the  first  watch.  Mr.  Landray  you'll  relieve 
me;  your  brother  can  follow  you;  and  Bingham  and  Walsh  can  fin- 
ish out  the  night  together.  I  reckon  I  needn't  tell  you  all,  that  you'd 
best  get  what  sleep  you  can."  And  with  this  he  took  up  his  rifle, 
crossed  the  barrier,  and  with  noiseless  step  made  the  circuit  of  the 
wagons. 

The  enemy  had  withdrawn  to  the  cottonwoods  where  their  blazing 
camp-fires  were  now  plainly  visible.  At  his  back  in  the  shelter  of  the 
forted  wagons,  his  companions  had  huddled  close  together  in  the 
darkness,  and  were  now  talking  in  whispers;  he  heard  nothing  of  what 
they  said,  and  presently  the  murmur  of  their  voices  ceased  entirely. 

Until  this  day  he  had  known  never  a  doubt  as  to  the  success  of 
their  journey;  the  reasonable  uncertainty  he  might  have  felt  had  long 


ii4  THE  LANDRAYS 

since  faded  from  his  mind;  others  might  fail,  but  he  never;  and  now 
their  way  was  blocked.  Twenty  white  men  alone  he  would  not  have 
feared;  the  Indians  by  themselves  he  would  have  feared  even  less; 
but  together,  the  cunning  of  the  one  supplemented  by  the  intelli- 
gence of  the  other,  was  something  he  had  not  reckoned  on.  Even 
should  they  beat  them  off,  their  whole  plan  must  be  changed.  He 
was  quite  sure  that  it  would  not  be  safe  to  venture  into  Salt  Lake. 
He  had  heard  too  much  of  the  justice  the  Mormon  leaders  were 
wont  to  mete  out  to  such  of  the  Gentiles  as  came  under  their 
displeasure,  especially  when  these  Gentiles  had  in  their  possession 
valuable  property;  and  Basil  knew,  and  probably  by  this  time 
Raymond  knew,  that  they  had  with  them  a  large  sum  of  money. 
The  needy  saints  would  never  let  them  out  of  their  hands  while  any 
pretext  remained  on  which  to  detain  them;  and  what  better  pre- 
text could  be  furnished  them  than  that  some  of  their  co-religionists 
had  been  killed  by  members  of  the  party.  Then  his  brain  became 
busy  with  the  problem  of  immediate  escape.  They  could  mount  the 
mules  and  make  a  dash  for  the  mountains;  but  his  reason  warned 
him  than  any  such  desperate  measure  must  be  attempted  only  when 
their  need  of  water  had  rendered  the  hill  absolutely  untenantable; 
for  the  chances  were  that  thy  would  be  surrounded  and  butchered 
before  they  had  gone  a  mile.  No,  clearly  such  an  attempt  should  be 
made  only  in  the  last  and  direst  extremity. 

In  the  stillness  of  his  own  thoughts  the  noises  of  the  camp  in  the 
cottonwoods  came  to  his  ears.  He  heard  the  neighing  of  horses,  the 
voices  of  men;  now  it  was  a  burst  of  laughter,  a  fragment  of  song, 
that  reached  him;  the  white  men  were  carousing  with  their  red  allies. 
He  stood  in  an  attitude  of  listening;  he  seemed  to  find  something 
insulting  in  these  sounds,  and  scarcely  knowing  what  he  did  he  fell 
to  threatening  the  camp;  he  shook  his  gun  at  it  and  waved  his  free 
hand  menacingly,  then  he  fell  to  cursing  under  his  breath,  softly 
so  as  not  to  disturb  the  others.  How  long  he  continued  thus  he  did 
not  know;  he  was  finally  aroused  by  hearing  Stephen  call  his  name; 
and  Stephen  stepping  to  his  side  placed  a  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Why,  Rogers,  what's  the  matter  ?"  he  asked  in  a  whisper. 

"Matter,  Landray  ?  They're  having  water  when  better  men  are 
going  thirsty!"  he  said  stupidly,  and  his  utterance  was  thick  and 
difficult.  "That's  matter  enough  I  reckon,"  he  added,  with  some- 
thing of  his  usual  voice  and  manner;  he  ^vas  like  a  man  waking  from 
a  dream. 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN  115 

"You  have  seen  nothing?"  questioned  Stephen. 

"Nothing  —  have  you  slept  ?  " 

"A  little;  not  much." 

Here  a  burst  of  sound  from  the  camp  reached  them,  long  con- 
tinued and  sustained;  it  was  strident,  fierce,  primitive;  Stephen 
turned  to  Rogers. 

"I'd  almost  say  they  were  singing  hymns,"  and  he  smiled  at  the 
fancy. 

"They  are  dancing  our  scalps,"  said  Rogers. 

"That's  premature,"  said  Stephen. 

Rogers  moved  off  toward  the  wagons.  A  moment  later  he  had 
stretched  himself  on  the  ground  at  Benny's  side. 


CHAPTER   SIXTEEN 

STEPHEN  fell  to  pacing  about  the  wagons  as  Rogers  had  done. 
He  saw  the  fires  of  the  Indians  die  down  until  they  became 
mere  specks  of  living  colour  that  seemed  to  glare  steadily  at 
him  out  of  the  distance.  As  the  fires  died,  so  did  all  sound  until  at 
last  a  mighty  silence  held  the  plain  in  its  spell;  and  with  the  silence 
came  a  tormenting  loneliness.  But  for  the  black  outline  of  the  moun- 
tain peaks  against  a  lighter  sky  he  might  have  been  looking  off  into 
infinite  space.  The  night  wind  sinking  to  a  murmur,  sighed  about 
the  wagons,  softly  flapping  their  bullet-torn  canvases.  It  seemed  to 
hold  the  very  soul  of  that  lone  land.  He  turned  his  face  to  the  east; 
somewhere  there  beyond  the  night,  in  the  new  day  that  was  break- 
ing, was  Benson.  With  a  gulp  of  sudden  emotion  he  saw  the  valley 
as  he  had  seen  it  on  a  thousand  summer  mornings,  with  no  special 
ralization  of  its  beauty;  dawn,  the  day's  beginning ;  here  and 
there  a  lantern  flashing  in  and  out  among  barns  and  outbuildings; 
the  darkness  growing  always  greyer,  always  toward  the  light,  until 
the  sleek  cattle  could  be  seen  in  the  fields,  newly  risen  from  the  long 
wet  grass  and  with  the  dew  yet  sparkling  on  flanks  and  sides,  cross- 
ing slowly  to  pasture  bars  to  be  fed  and  tended;  and  then  far  down 
the  valley  a  touch  of  glowing  colour  that  crept  above  the  low  hills  to 
become  fixed  in  a  narrow  luminous  rim  which  changed  swiftly  to  a 
great  flaming  quadrant  of  light  that  grew  into  the  level  sun. 

Regret,  terrible  because  it  was  unavailing,  lay  hold  of  him. 
Virginia  was  there.  Was  it  possible  that  by  any  gift  of  divination  she 
could  know  of  their  danger  ?  She  had  told  him  more  than  once  that 
no  evil  would  ever  befall  him  and  she  be  wholly  unconscious  of  it, 
no  matter  what  the  distance  that  separated  them.  He  hoped  this  was 
so.  He  prayed  that  if  the  coming  day  closed  on  a  tragedy,  she  might 
learn  at  once  of  the  destruction  of  the  train;  but  who  would  there  be 
left  to  tell  her  of  the  end  ?  None  of  his  companions  would  survive,  he 
was  sure  of  this,  if  Basil  and  Raymond  were  responsible  for  the 

116 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN  n7 

attack;  indeed,  it  would  be  the  merest  chance  if  she  ever  knew.  He 
would  not  go  back  to  her  —  that  would  be  all;  this  alone  she  would 
know,  that  he  had  not  returned;  the  rest  would  be  conjecture. 

He  recalled  how  they  had  passed  in  indifference  the  graves  by  the 
trail  side;  they  had  not  once  been  moved  *o  curiosity,  even  the  most 
idle;  for  what  were  these  little  tragedies  in  the  supreme  selfishness  of 
that  rush  across  the  plains,  arid  who  would  stop  or  turn  aside  to 
unravel  the  small  mystery  of  their  last  stand  ?  What  man  would  care 
who  they  had  been,  or  whence  they  came,  when  the  certain  kand  of 
death  had  done  its  work  ?  Their  very  bones  might  bleach  there  for 
a  hundred  years  before  another  white  man  climbed  that  hill. 

He  told  himself  his  fears  were  cowardly;  he  sought  to  reason  him- 
self out  of  his  forebodings;  a  thousand  things  might  happen  when 
day  came  to  make  the  situation  seem  less  hopeless.  It  was  only  the 
night,  the  unspeakable  loneliness  and  silence,  or  the  memory  of  that 
ghastly  presence  in  the  wagon,  with  its  white  upturned  face,  that  filled 
him  with  abject  fear.  He  closed  his  eyes,  but  the  white  face  was  there 
before  him  —  always  the  white  face  —  with  the  small  dark  stain  on 
the  temple  among  the  brown  curls;  the  visible  cause  so  inadequate 
measured  by  the  consequences.  Dunlevy  might  have  lived  for  sixty 
years  without  that  mark;  and  sixty  years  were  countless  weeks,  end- 
less days,  hours  and  minutes  innumerable;  and  yet  all  in  a  second 
the  possibilities  of  life  had  been  withdrawn,  and  there  remained  only 
the  senseless  clay  and  the  uncertainty  that  hope  and  love  had  crys- 
tallized into  its  high  belief  of  immortality. 

To  get  away  from  this  he  tried  to  think  only  of  Virginia.  He  saw 
her  again  on  the  white  porch  of  their  home;  he  could  only  remember 
her  so;  the  days  they  had  spent  together  seemed  blotted  out  and  to 
have  dwindled  to  the  agony  of  that  last  look;  yet  even  this  gave  him 
hope  and  courage.  He  thought  now  of  the  time  when  the  toil  and 
effort  of  the  trail  should  be  ended,  when  he  should  have  made  or  lost 
in  this  foolish  enterprise,  to  his  sobered  judgment  it  mattered  not 
which. 

But  what  if  this  was  his  last  night;  his  lips  parched,  and  his  breath- 
ing became  laboured;  already  in  anticipation  he  tasted  death.  What 
if  it  would  be  his  lot  to  share  poor  Dunlevy's  sleep!  He  thought  with 
bitter  regret  how  he  had  filled  Virginia's  heart;  there  were  no  children 
to  take  his  place;  all  her  strong  maternal  love  had  been  given  to  him. 

His  mind  drifted  back  to  commonplaces.  He  had  disposed  of  his 
business  in  an  orderly  fashion  before  he  left  home.  Benson  knew  just 


ii8  THE  LANDRAYS 

how  matters  stood,  and  he  believed  Benson  to  be  scrupulously  hoi 
est.  There  would  be  ample  left  for  her,  if  the  worst  came  to  the 
worst,  out  of  the  wreck  he  and  Bushrod  had  made  of  the  family 
fortunes;  ample  for  the  simple  life  she  would  choose  to  live.  Then  he 
remembered  the  packet  of  papers  in  his  pocket;  among  them  was 
the  memorandum  which  he  and  his  brother  had  drawn  up  at  Ben- 
son's request  and  which  included  an  accurate  inventory  of  their 
interests.  He  had  intended  sending  Virginia  a  copy,  but  had  neg- 
lected to  do  so. 

The  sound  of  a  light  footfall  roused  him  from  his  revery;  he  turned 
quickly.  In  the  grey  light  he  saw  the  figure  of  the  child;  his  hold  on 
his  gun  relaxed;  the  boy  stole  to  his  side. 

"Why  aren't  you  asleep,  Benny  ?"  he  asked  in  a  whisper  so  as  not 
to  disturb  the  others. 

"I  have  been  sleeping,"  the  boy  answered,  "but  I  waked  up  and 
got  lonely,  and  I  couldn't  wake  my  pop." 

"Couldn't  wake  your  father?  That's  odd;  he  usually  rouses  at 
the  slightest  sound." 

"I  know;  but  he  didn't  to-night,  and  I  got  scared." 

A  horrible  doubt  flashed  through  Stephen's  mind.  "Here,"  he 
said,  "you  hold  my  gun,  and  I'll  go  and  see  if  he's  all  right."  And 
he  made  his  way  to  the  Californian's  side,  but  the  latter's  regular 
breathing  instantly  dispelled  his  fears.  He  returned  to  Benny. 
"What  did  you  do;  did  you  call  him  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  and  I  put  my  hand  on  his  face  as  I  always  do  when  I  want 
him  to  wake  up." 

"Oh,  well,  he's  very  tired,  that's  all." 

"Have  they  gone  away,  Mr.  Landray  ?"  the  boy  asked. 

"Are  you  afraid,  Benny?" 

"No"  —  slowly  and  uncertainly  —  "at  least  I  reckon  not  so  very 
afraid.  Are  they  still  there  ? " 

"I  expect  they  are." 

The  child  was  silent.  Stephen  stood  leaning  on  his  rifle  looking 
down  at  him  with  a  wistful  pity  in  his  eyes.  He  had  scarcely  noticed 
him  before,  he  was  so  silent,  so  little  in  the  way;  and  now  for  the 
first  time  he  was  seeing  how  small  and  weak  he  was.  WThy  had  Rogers 
brought  him  with  them;  why  had  he  not  left  him  behind  with  some 
woman  who  would  have  cared  for  him  ?  His  sudden  sense  of  pity 
made  him  bitterly  resentful  of  what  he  considered  the  man's  ignorant 
unimaginative  devotion,  for  of  course  he  knew  that  the  boy  was  all 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN  119 

in  all  to  the  Californian;  but  why  since  he  loved  him  had  he  brought 
him  out  into  the  wilderness  to  face  hardship  and  posible  death  ? 
It  was  bad  enough  for  men,  but  this  child  —  he  sickened  at  the 
thought. 

Then  he  recalled  with  no  little  satisfaction  that  even  Basil  had 
shown  more  than  a  passing  interest  in  the  boy;  brutal  and  hard  as  he 
was  with  every  living  thing,  the  child  had  yet  found  a  way  into  his 
surly,  grudging  regard,  and  this  in  spite  of  the  open  breach  that 
from  the  first  had  existed  between  Rogers  and  himself.  Remember- 
ing this,  he  could  not  believe  that  the  fur  trader  would  allow  any 
harm  that  it  was  in  his  power  to  avert,  to  come  to  him.  Then  he 
thought  again  of  the  packet  of  papers  in  his  pocket;  why  not  give 
them  to  Benny  to  keep  ? 

"See  here,  Benny,  do  you  think  you  could  take  care  of  some  pa- 
pers for  me  to-morrow  ? " 

The  child  nodded  interestedly.  "What  are  they?"  he  asked. 

Stephen  took  the  packet  from  the  pocket  of  his  flannel  hunting 
shirt.  "I  am  going  to  give  you  these  papers  to  take  care  of  for  me, 
Benny,"  he  said.  "Now  you  are  to  remember,  if  anything  should 
happen  to  me  they  are  to  go  back  to  Benson."  He  paused  hopelessly; 
could  the  child  understand  ? 

"Yes,  sir,  they  are  to  go  back  to  Benson." 

"Now  think,  Benny,  how  would  you  send  them  there  ?" 

"I'd  give  them  to  Mr.  Bushrod,  or  to  my  pop,  or  Mr.  Walsh." 

"Good,  so  you  would,  Benny;  they  would  know  perfectly  what  to 
do;  but  if  anything  should  happen  to  them,  you  are  to  keep  in  mind 
just  two  things,  the  name  of  Benson,  and  the  name  of  Landray. 
Do  you  think  you  can  remember?" 

The  child  laughed  softly.  "Why,  of  course  I  can,  Mr.  Landray.  I 
can  remember  you;  and  Benson's  the  name  of  the  place  where  my 
pop  was  a  little  boy." 

"Yes,  but  do  you  know  where  Benson  is  ?" 

The  child's  face  fell  for  an  instant,  then  it  lighted  up  with^  sudden 
intelligence,  he  turned  quickly  and  pointed  to  the  East.  "It's  there. 
That's  Benson,"  he  said. 

"It's  there  true  enough,  but  it's  a  long  way  off,  a  very  long  way. 
Benny,  Benson's  in  the  State  of  Ohio;  do  you  think  you  can  remem- 
ber that?" 

"Benson's  in  the  State  of  Ohio,"  said  Benny  dutifully. 

"That's  right,  Benson's  in  the  State  of  Ohio,"  Stephen  slowly 


izo  THE  LANDRAYS 

repeated  after  him.  He  smiled  almost  pityingly,  his  hope  hung  by 
such  a  slender  thread;  a  child's  drifting  memory. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  boy,  "Benson's  in  the  State  of  Ohio." 

"And  you  are  never  to  part  with  these  papers  unless  it  is  to  give 
them  to  some  white  man  who  will  send  them  to  the  person  whose 
name  is  written  in  the  packet;  and  should  you  ever  meet  Basil  Lan- 
dray  again,  you  are  not  to  let  him  know  that  you  have  the  papers." 

Benny  looked  at  him  shrewdly.  "He  won't  come  around,  Mr. 
Landray.  My  pop  'lows  he'll  fix  him  if  he  ever  shows  his  head  in  this 
camp." 

The  papers  were  in  a  buckskin  bag  that  closed  with  a  stout  draw- 
string. "You  can  wear  it  around  your  neck,  Benny  —  so,"  said  Ste- 
phen. "Keep  it  under  your  blouse,  like  this  —  it  will  be  safe  there. 
It's  a  very  important  matter,  Benny,  and  you  are  such  a  little  fellow 
for  so  big  a  trust." 

Here  he  was  interrupted  by  the  discharge  of  a  gun,  and  within  the 
barricade  Rogers  sprang  to  his  feet.  Almost  simultaneously  with  his 
warning  cry,  the  dark  slopes  of  the  hill  were  lighted  up  with  spurts 
of  flame  from  the  belching  muzzles  of  fifty  rifles. 

It  had  all  been  so  sudden  and  unexpected  that  for  a  moment 
Stephen  was  stunned  and  stupefied;  then  he  gave  a  swift  glance 
about  him,  and  felt  rather  than  saw  that  a  score  or  more  of  dark  forms 
were  stealing  up  the  slope  of  the  hill.  He  heard  Rogers  storming  and 
cursing  as  he  bade  his  startled  companions  rouse  and  arm  them- 
selves. He  gathered  up  the  child  in  his  arms  and  darted  toward  the 
wagons:  there  he  met  Rogers. 

"Is  this  the  way  you  keep  watch?"  the  Californian  shouted 
fiercely.  "You've  thrown  our  lives  away!" 

Between  the  wagons  where  Stephen  entered  the  enclosure,  ten  or 
a  dozen  dark  forms  now  appeared.  He  put  down  the  child  bidding 
him  run  and  hide  himself  in  a  safe  spot,  and  sprang  to  Roger's  aid 
where  he  stood  beating  back  the  enemy  with  the  stock  of  his  clubbed 
gun.  It  was  only  for  an  instant,  however,  that  they  faced  these  odds 
alone;  for  Bushrod,  Walsh,  and  Bingham  rushed  to  their  assistance, 
and  there  succeeded  a  wild  moment;  the  mingled  sound  of  blows 
and  oaths,  and  then  the  attack  having  failed,  the  dark  forms  melted 
silently  away  in  the  grey  light. 

"Who's  hurt?"  Rogers  inquired  eagerly. 

"I  guess  I'm  not,  for  one,"  said  Bushrod.  "How  about  you, 
Steve,  and  you,  Walsh,  are  your  skins  whole  yet  ?" 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN  I2i 

"Yes,  but  good  God,  where  is  Bingham!  What's  become  of 
him?"  cried  Stephen. 

"He  was  at  my  elbow  a  moment  ago,"  faltered  Walsh.  There  was 
a  pause  while  they  stared  blankly  at  each  other.  Then  from  the  plain 
below  they  heard  a  yell  of  savage  triumph. 

"Hark,  what's  that  ?"  said  Stephen,  but  his  blood  ran  cold  at  the 
sound. 

"What  does  it  mean,  Rogers  ?"  Bushrod  demanded,  for  the  yells 
continued.  "Why  don't  you  speak,  man  ?"  he  cried. 

"I  was  listening  to  see  if  I  could  hear  him;  he  must  have  been 
done  for  when  they  fetched  him  off  with  their  own  dead  and  wound- 
ed. Hear  the  devils  yell!  I  reckon  he  can  thank  God  Almighty  he 
died  in  time;"  and  he  licked  his  dry  lips  with  the  tip  of  his  tongue. 

"You  mean  —  "  began  Stephen  in  a  voice  of  horror;  but  the  Cali- 
fornian  cut  him  short. 

"I  tell  you  he  was  dead  when  they  found  out  who  they  had  fetched 
away;  ain't  that  enough  for  you  to  know  ?"  he  cried,  but  he  clapped 
his  hands  to  his  ears,  and  stood  rocking  from  side  to  side. 

"How  did  they  get  so  close  ?"  asked  Walsh  at  last. 

"You'd  better  ask  Landray  that,"  said  Rogers  bitterly.  "It  was 
his  watch."  He  had  stooped,  and  was  picking  up  his  rifle  which  he 
had  dropped  t'he  moment  before. 

"No,  it  was  mine,"  said  Bushrod.  "Why  didn't  you  call  me, 
Steve  ? "  They  were  grateful  to  have  something  to  talk  of. 

"You  were  asleep,  and  —  well,  I  couldn't  sleep,  so  what  was  the 
use  of  calling  you  ?" 

They  could  see  now  indistinctly  what  was  passing  below  them; 
merely  a  dark  cluster  of  huddled  men  and  horses,  where  they  waited 
for  day  to  come;  but  with  the  first  streaks  of  yellow  light  the  plains 
resounded  with  the  beat  of  hoofs. 

Half  an  hour  passed,  and  then  Walsh  pitched  forward  without  a 
word  or  groan,  shot  through  the  heart;  an  instant  later  Bushrod  put 
aside  his  rifle. 

"You'll  have  to  finish  it,"  he  said  shortly  to  his  brother,  and  held 
up  his  right  hand;  his  wrist  had  been  shattered  by  a  ball.  He  looked 
at  the  hurt  member  for  a  moment  considering  what  he  should  do; 
and  then  began  moodily  to  wrap  it  in  long  strips  of  cloth  which  he 
cut  with  his  hunting-knife  from  the  front  of  his  shirt. 

The  sun  rose  higher  and  higher  in  the  sky,  until  its  rays  fell  ver- 
tically on  the  three  men  and  the  child.  Stephen  and  Rogers,  their 


122  THE  LANDRAYS 

faces  black  with  powder  stains  and  their  lips  parched  and  swollen, 
intently  watched  the  enemy;  from  time  to  time  they  warily  raised 
themselves  on  their  knees  and  made  a  hasty  discharge  of  their 
rifles.  Benny,  at  his  father's  side,  helped  him  to  load;  his  little  face, 
pinched  with  suffering  and  terror,  was  streaked  with  sweat  and 
grime.  At  Stephen's  elbow,  Bushrod,  working  clumsily  with  his  un- 
injured hand  performed  the  same  offices  for  his  brother;  thus  they 
managed  to  keep  two  rifles  always  loaded.  In  this  manner  the  mor- 
ning passed. 

The  Californian's  fire  had  slackened  by  imperceptible  degrees; 
now  each  time  his  gun  was  loaded  it  was  jerked  recklessly  to  his 
shoulder  and  discharged  without  aim;  his  dark  eyes  lighted  wildly, 
he  began  to  sing  the  emigrant's  song, 

"Oh,  California, 

That's  the  land  for  me, 
I'm  bound  for  San  Francisco 

With  my  wash  bowl  on  my  knee" 

At  first  he  sang  the  words  under  his  breath,  crooning  them  softly 
over  and  over  to  himself;  then  the  song  grew  louder  and  louder  until 
he  finally  bellowed  the  words  in  a  deep  rugged  bass.  The  sound  cut 
like  a  knife,  and  Benny  shrank  from  his  side  in  alarm. 

"Be  still,  Rogers!"  ordered  Stephen  sharply. 

"Why  the  hell  do  you  want  me  to  keep  still  ?  I'm  letting  'em  know 
how  gay  we  feel,"  and  he  began  to  sing  again, 

"/  soon  shall  be  in  'Frisco 

And  then  I'll  look  all  round—" 

"I  tell  you,  Rogers,  keep  still!"  cried  Landray. 

The  Californian  paused,  and  glared  at  him  vacantly. 

"Rogers,"  he  repeated  slowly,  "Who's  talking  about  Rogers? 
That's  a  good  joke;  Rogers  is  dead  —  the  redskins  done  for  him 
handsome;  but  first  he  killed  ten  of  the  devils.  They  stripped  off  his 
shirt  and  cut  ten  gashes  in  his  back,  and  then  they  stabbed  him  ten 
times,  and  drove  a  stake  in  his  eye  and  filled  the  hole  with  powder 
and  blew  his  skull  to  pieces.  That's  the  trick  they  played  Rogers."  He 
seemed  to  dwell  on  this  horrible  fancy  with  positive  delight.  "Rogers 
was  a  murdering  cuss  anyhow,  but  God  Almighty  fixed  it  so  he 
got  come  up  with  all  right!"  While  he  was  speaking  he  had  half 
risen  to  his  feet,  but  now  he  squatted  down  once  more.  Benny  thrust 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN  12$ 

the  stock  of  a  rifle  toward  him,  his  hands  closed  about  it  instinctively^ 
he  seemed  to  be  recalled  to  himself.  "Keep  low,  son,"  he  cautioned, 
"they  sha'n't  serve  us  as  they  served  Rogers.  Presently  we'll  be  on 
the  move." 

But  Benny,  wide-eyed  and  frightened,  and  not  comprehending 
the  change  that  had  come  over  him,  only  shrank  further  and  further 
away.  An  instant  later  the  Californian  dropped  his  gun. 

"What's  the  use!"  he  cried,  springing  to  his  feet. 

"Get  down,  Rogers!  Get  down,  you  fool!"  cried  Stephen 
angrily. 

"I  want  some  of  Bingham's  luck!"  He  swung  about  on  his 
heel,  searching  the  horizon  with  heavy  bloodshot  eyes.  "Where's 
the  \Vest  ?  There's  gold  there;  put  the  mules  to  the  wagons  —  let's  be 
moving  —  gold!  Do  you  hear  ?  Me  and  Benny  needs  it!"  And  before 
they  divined  his  purpose  he  had  leaped  the  barricade.  Bushrod 
sprang  after  him  and  with  his  uninjured  hand  sought  to  draw  him 
back;  they  struggled  fiercely  together  for  a  moment,  and  then  Rogers 
exerting  his  strength  dragged  him  across  the  hilltop. 

"Let  him  go,  Bush!"  shouted  Stephen. 

Bushrod  freed  himself  from  the  madman's  clutch  and  turned  to- 
regain  the  shelter  of  the  wagons;  but  at  this  moment  a  horseman 
galloped  swiftly  up  the  slope  and  drew  rein  not  ten  paces  distant;  he 
threw  himself  from  his  horse  and  raised  his  rifle.  It  might  have  been 
some  horrid  fancy  that  the  eyes  that  looked  at  him  out  of  the  smear 
of  paint  were  Basil  Landray's  eyes,  but  there  was  no  mistaking  the 
beard. 

"You!"  he  cried,  and  with  his  left  hand  sought  to  draw  the  hunt- 
ing-knife from  its  sheath  at  his  belt,  since  save  for  this  he  was  wea- 
ponless. The  fur  trader  thrust  his  rifle  across  his  horse's  back  and 
taking  deliberate  aim,  fired.  Bushrod,  with  his  eyes  still  fixed  in- 
tently on  his  cousin's  face,  and  his  hand  still  fumbling  clumsily  with 
the  hilt  of  his  knife,  sank  first  to  his  knees,  then  he  pitched  forward 
with  a  single  groan. 

It  all  occupied  but  an  instant  in  the  doing,  yet  each  slightest  detail 
was  distinct  and  vivid  to  Stephen.  Until  Bushrod  fell  he  made  neither 
sound  or  movement;  he  durst  not  use  the  loaded  rifle  he  held  in  his 
hand,  since  his  brother  stood  between  him  and  the  fur  trader;  but  as 
Bushrod  sank  to  the  ground  he  strode  forward  with  his  piece  resting 
loosely  in  the  crook  of  his  arm.  Basil  saw  him  coming  and  his  first 
impulse  was  evidently  flight;  then  he  released  his  hold  on  his  horse, 


124  THE  LANDRAYS 

dropped  his  rifle,  and  drawing  a  pistol  from  his  belt,  stepped  eagerly 
forward  to  meet  his  cousin. 

When  the  two  men  were  quite  near,  the  fur  trader  lifted  his  pistol. 
Stephen  saw  his  black  beard  bristle  like  the  mane  of  some  angry  ani- 
mal, and  caught  the  glint  of  his  cruel  eyes  along  the  short  barrel; 
the  hammer  fell,  the  cap  exploded,  but  there  was  no  report;  and  with 
an  oath  Basil  threw  down  the  useless  weapon. 

"It's  my  turn.  I  knew  it  would  come,"  said  Stephen  sternly;  and 
he  drew  the  stock  of  his  rifle  up  to  his  shoulder.  He  was  so  secure  in 
this  belief  of  his,  that  no  power  on  earth  could  have  moved  him  to 
haste.  He  heard  the  hoof  beats  of  the  horses  as  they  charged  up  the 
hill,  yet  the  gun  came  slowly  to  his  shoulder,  and  his  aim  was  taken 
with  the  utmost  deliberation.  It  seemed  minutes  while  his  eyes  were 
finding  the  sights. 

Basil,  with  an  uncontrollable  emotion  of  fear  and  horror,  threw 
out  his  arms  in  a  gesture  of  mute  entreaty;  then  he  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands,  while  a  sob  burst  from  his  twitching  lips;  a  deep 
groan  followed  almost  instantly. 

Stephen  stood  like  a  man  in  a  daze,  with  his  still  smoking  rifle 
held  in  his  hand.  The  trampling  of  the  horses  roused  him  to  some 
thought  of  his  own  safety;  he  took  his  eyes  away  from  the  writhing 
figure  on  the  ground,  and  turned,  intending  if  possible  to  regain  the 
shelter  of  the  barricade;  but  what  was  the  use  ?  One  place  was  no 
better  than  another,  for  the  end  had  clearly  come.  He  seized  his 
rifle  by  the  barrel  and  heaved  up  the  stock. 

"Come  on!"  he  cried  hoarsely;  and  at  his  words  the  dark  shout- 
ing mass  of  straining  men  and  trampling  horses  closed  about  him. 
He  struck  out  fiercely  but  never  blindly;  each  time  his  weapon  was 
Braised  he  selected  his  victim,  and  each  time  he  crushed  the  life  out 
»v4»f  this  victim  with  a  terrible  sweeping  blow;  for  he  had  gone  beyond 
$!ifear,  the  dread  of  wounds  and   death,  even  the    strong   desire  of 
:  main's  strength  in  its  prime,  to  live.  A  dozen  guns  blazed  in  his  face; 
:  noew  he  was  down,  now  up;  now  down  again;  his  footing  slippery 
witl|  his  own  blood  and  with  that  of  his  assailants;  but  now  he  was 
,  down,,  and  for  the  last  time;  and  the  savages  struggled  fiercely  among 
themselves,  each  intent  on  striking  the  body  of  this  mighty  fallen 
•  warrior. 

The  <Qalifornian  had  kept  on  down  the  western  slope  of  the  hill. 
'  When  Basil  released  his  horse,  the  animal  trotted  off  toward  the 
t  cpttpnwQods,  and  before  it  had  gone  a  hundred  yards  Rogers  caught 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN  125 

and  threw  himself  astride  of  it,  and  fled  out  across  the  plain,  while 
back  to  the  hill  making  lessening  head  against  the  freshening  wind 
was  borne  snatches  of  his  song.  He  had  covered  a  third  of  the  dis- 
tance to  the  cottonwoods,  when  a  child's  frightened  voice  reached 
him. 

"Pop!  Pop!  Come  back!  It's  me—  Benny!" 

He  drew  rein  instantly,  turned,  and  at  a  canter  rode  back  toward 
the  camp.  There  was  absolute  silence  there  now,  save  for  the  screams 
of  the  terrified  child,  who  stood  outside  the  barricade,  clinging  to 
the  spokes  of  a  wagon  wheel. 

"Benny,  where  are  you?"  Rogers  called,  when  he  reached  the 
foot  of  the  hill,  and  his  dull  eyes  lit  up  with  a  sudden  sense  of  things. 

For  answer  there  came  a  crashing  volley;  and  out  of  the  drifting 
patches  of  smoke  a  great  bay  horse  appeared  to  spring,  and  stung 
with  wounds  dashed  along  the  plain  dragging  the  limp  figure  of  a 
man  whose  heavy-booted  foot  had  caught  in  a  stirrup-iron. 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN 

THE  letters  which  the  brothers  and  Walsh  had  written  at  Fort 
Laramie,  and  which  they  had  entrusted  to  a  party  of  return- 
ing emigrants,  were  the  last  that  reached  the  town  of  Benson. 
They  were  poured  over  in  secret;  and  afterward  Colonel  Sharp  was 
permitted  to  print  in  the  Pioneer  such  descriptive  passages  as  were 
deemed  of  general  public  interest. 

They  marked  the  end  of  what  had  seemed  as  permanent  as  any- 
thing can  seem  in  this  world;  and  all  that  remained  in  record  of  what 
three  men  in  their  varying  ways  had  counted  of  supreme  worth,  was 
the  yellowing  paper  with  the  many  seals  and  the  words  that  meant 
so  little  or  so  much. 

One  month,  then  two,  then  three,  dragged  by  in  silence;  a  silence 
which  Virginia,  and  Jane,  and  Anna,  bore  with  differing  degrees  of 
fear  and  uncertainty,  as  they  waited  from  day  to  day  for  some  sign 
from  the  gold-seekers;  but  no  word  came.  The  trail  and  the  camp- 
fire  with  the  love  that  watched  beside  them  had  spoken  for  the  last  time. 

Each  day  Virginia  with  Jane,  from  the  white  porch  of  the  farm- 
house, anticipated  the  coming  of  the  north  bound  stage  which  car- 
ried the  western  mails.  They  heard  it  with  its  squeaking  brake  block 
hard  set  against  the  wheels  the  moment  it  began  the  long  descent  of 
Landray's  Hill;  they  watched  it  with  anxious  glances  as  it  came 
careening  into  sight,  tossed  and  troubled  in  the  ruts  of  the  Little 
River  road;  and  their  eyes,  now  filled  with  a  world  of  hope  and 
yearning,  followed  it  until  it  was  lost  in  the  depths  of  the  covered 
bridge  at  the  foot  of  Main  Street. 

Sam  West,  sometimes  dusty,  and  sometimes  muddy  —  for  they 
would  not  let  him  start  for  town  until  they  saw  the  last  of  the  coach 
since  they  found  some  comfort  in  sending  him  off  post-haste,  and  in 
bidding  him  ride  hard,  and  above  all  things  be  sure  and  bring  back 
the  letters  —  would  each  day  present  his  honest  red  face  at  the  little 
square  window  in  the  post-office,  with  a  cheerful,  "Anything  to-day, 

126 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN  127 

Mr.  Bendy?"  And  Mr.  Bendy,  who  knew  there  was  nothing  for 
him  would  answer,  "No,  I  think  not,  Sam,  but  I  won't  be  sure; 
just  wait  a  minute  and  I'll  look."  And  he  would  search  through  the 
letters  only  to  lay  them  down  with  a  regretful  shake  of  the  head. 
"I  am  sorry,  Sam,  but  there  don't  seem  to  be  as  much  as  the  scratch 
of  a  pen,"  he  would  say. 

At  first,  Sam,  by  a  variety  of  ingenious  theories  strove  to  explain 
away  the  repetition  of  this  tragic  fact;  then  theories  being  exhausted, 
he  fixed  his  faith  for  a  time  on  the  inherent  weakness  of  human 
nature. 

"I  didn't  think  it  of  Stephen  Landray —  I  vow  I  didn't!  Looks 
like  out  of  sight  out  of  mind,  don't  it  ?  Well,  I'm  dummed!"  However, 
the  cynic's  mood  endured  but  briefly.  "I  wish  she  wouldn't  send  me," 
he  told  the  postmaster  one  rainy  day  late  in  September.  "I'd  give  a 
good  deal  not  to  have  to  go  back  and  tell  her  there's  nothing;  why 
don't  he  write;  what's  to  hinder  him,  anyway  ?" 

"I  don't  know  what's  to  hinder,  Sam,  but  something  is  a-hinder- 
ing,"  said  Mr.  Bendy. 

"Mighty  singular;  ain't  it?"  and  Sam  meditated  in  silence  for  a 
moment.  "Do  you  reckon  anything's  wrong  with  them  ?"  he  asked, 
dropping  his  voice  to  a  confidential  whisper.  He  could  never  quite 
rid  himself  of  the  conviction  that  the  postmaster,  with  all  those  let- 
ters, must  have  a  means  of  knowing. 

"I  hope  not;  I'd  hate  to  think  that,"  said  Mr.  Bendy. 

"You  don't  reckon  the  letters  could  be  lost  ?"  Sam  ventured  hesi- 
tatingly, for  to  him  the  question  somehow  seemed  to  argue  lack  of 
faith  in  Mr.  Bently's  official  ability. 

"That  might  happen,  Sam;  I  won't  say  it  is  at  all  likely;  still  it 
might  happen." 

"Can  I  tell  her  that,  Mr.  Bendy,  that  you  said  so?  I  got  to  tell 
her  something;  she  just  listens  to  any  fool  thing  I  say,  and  turns 
back  into  the  house  without  a  word  except  a  'Thank  you,  Sam.' 
She's  got  to  stop  sending  me,  or  I'll  quit  the  place!  It  don't 
make  no  difference  if  Stephen  Landray  did  tell  me  he  wanted 
me  to  stay  on.  He  ain't  acting  right,  not  letting  her  know  where 
he's  at." 

"I  am  afraid  the  boys  made  a  big  mistake,"  said  Mr.  Bendy. 
"They  was  well  fixed  here." 

"They  was  indeed,"  agreed  Sam.  "Say,  would  you  mind  looking 
at  them  letters  again  to  make  sure,  Mr.  Bently  ?  No  ?  Don't  it  beat 


iz8  THE  LANDRAYS 

all  why  she  don't  hear  from  him!  Well,  I  must  be  getting  along,  she's 
waiting  for  me.  You  think  there  is  some  sort  of  a  slim  chance  that 
the  letters  are  lost  ?  It  will  be  a  comfort  for  them  to  think  that.  In- 
dians, maybe  ?" 

"No,  I  wouldn't  say  a  word  about  Indians,  Sam,"  ob  ected  Mr. 
Bently  hastily. 

"Well,  then,  they  are  just  lost,  you  reckon." 

"That  may  be,  Sam,  I  don't  say  it's  so,  but  the  western  mails  are 
very  oncertain.  They  probably  had  to  give  their  letters  to  some  party 
that  was  coming  East,  and  they  may  have  lost  them." 

"Then  I'd  like  to  put  my  hands  on  the  cuss  that  done  it!  I'd  make 
him  jump  clean  out  of  his  skin  to  get  shut  of  me." 

The  honest  fellow  galloped  back  to  the  farm  through  the  mud, 
and  in  the  face  of  a  cold  rain  that  drenched  him  to  the  skin.  It  was 
early  candle-light  when  he  entered  the  lane,  and  he  walked  his  horse 
up  the  strip  of  soggy  turf  while  he  meditated  on  what  he  should  tell 
Mrs.  Landray.  The  storm  had  driven  her  from  the  porch,  but  as  he 
turned  the  corner  of  the  house  on  his  way  to  the  barn  he  saw  her  face 
at  the  library  window,  and  merely  shook  his  head. 

When  he  had  stabled  and  fed  his  horse  he  hurried  into  the  kitchen. 
Martha,  his  wife,  met  him  with  a  look  of  inquiry  on  her  broad,  good- 
natured  face. 

"No  letters  ?"  she  asked,  and  he  answered  her  with  her  own  words, 
"No  letters." 

"There's  a  drink  of  brandy  for  you,  Sam,"  she  said.  "Mrs.  Lan- 
dray wanted  you  should  have  it." 

Sam  stalked  to  the  table  and  emptied  the  glass  at  a  swallow. 

"Best  French  spirits!  The  Landrays  always  was  gentlemen  when 
it  came  to  their  drinks." 

"We  are  expecting  things,  we  are,"  said  his  wife.  "You're 
to  be  ready  to  go  into  town  after  supper  for  the  doctor,  if  he's 
wanted." 

In  the  dining-room  with  its  dark  walnut  wainscoating,  doubly 
sombre  in  the  half  light  of  the  flickering  candles  that  burnt  on  the 
mantel,  Virginia  watched  and  waited  alone.  No  sound  came  from 
the  room  above;  silence  filled  the  house  with  a  hush  that  was  like 
expectation.  But  a  moment  before  she  had  heard  Martha  moving 
to  and  fro;  a  chair  had  been  pushed  across  the  floor;  and  she  had 
heard  the  sound  of  voices.  She  had  listened  intently  but  the  words 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN  129 

they  spoke  had  been  indistinguishable;    perhaps  Jane  was  resting 
more  quietly  now. 

An  hour  had  elapsed  since  Sam  had  rattled  out  of  the  yard  in  the 
covered  cart,  the  beat  of  his  horse's  hoofs  on  the  spongy  earth  soon 
dying  away  in  the  distance.  He  had  been  dispatched  in  urgent  haste 
into  town  to  bring  Dr.  Harrison. 

Meanwhile  Martha  had  the  care  of  the  sick  woman;  for  Virginia 
had  no  heart  to  go  near  her.  If  she  should  be  eeded,  or  if  Jane  asked 
for  her,  then  she  would  go;  but  not  unless.  The  situation  with  its 
hope  and  uncertainty  baffled  her  usually  ready  courage;  she  could 
only  think  of  that  boyish  husband,  for  so  Jane  described  him, 
and  his  absence  and  silence.  Why  had  he  gone  —  he  of  all  men  ? 
What  fitness  had  he,  with  his  impractical  Latin  and  Greek,  for  the 
hard  actualities  of  the  plains  ? 

From  her  seat  before  the  fire,  she  heard  the  sullen  insistant  rush 
of  the  wind  outside;  and  at  intervals  the  dull  surging  echoes  the 
wooded  heights  of  Landray's  Hill  gave  to  the  storm.  They  had 
roared  among  those  oaks  for  perhaps  a  thousand  years,  as  now,  when 
the  grey  clouds  and  slanted  mists  of  the  equinox  were  tossed  and 
twisted  in  the  face  of  the  night.  She  rested  her  cheek  in  the  palm  of 
her  hand;  she  heard  the  fall  of  the  rain  in  a  lull  of  the  storm;  and 
again  rising  out  of  the  silence,  the  wind,  as  it  roared  on  the  hill  and 
sweeping  nearer  beat  against  the  shuttered  windows  high  up  in  the 
gable  of  the  old  stone  mill:  then  it  dribbled  and  died  away  on  the 
brown  meadow  land  of  the  Little  River  bottom. 

Jane  was  quite  happy  ;  how  happy,  Virginia  had  only  her 
woman's  instinct  to  tell  her;  she  had  talked  incessantly  all  day  of 
the  future  when  her  husband  should  have  returned.  But  what  if  he 
did  not  return,  what  was  in  store  for  her  then  ?  This  doubt  now  took 
possession  of  Virginia's  fancy,  for  her  own  hope  had  crumbled; 
perhaps  it  was  only  the  night,  the  loneliness;  perhaps  later  when  all 
was  over,  her  courage  would  come  back;  and  then  there  was  the 
morrow,  it  might  bring  the  looked-for  letters;  it  surely  would,  she 
had  waited  patiently;  but  now  —  now  she  could  endure  no  longer. 

Presently  disturbing  her  revery  the  brass  knocker  on  the  front  door 
sounded  discordantly.  She  rose  hurriedly,  and  picking  up  a  candle 
hastened  out  into  the  hall  to  admit  Dr.  Harrison;  but  she  admitted 
more  than  the  doctor;  for  there  in  the  portly  physician's  shadow, 
bowing  and  smiling,  not  quite  diffident  and  not  quite  confident, 
stood  young  Jacob  Benson. 


130  THE  LANDRAYS 

The  doctor  was  saying  as  Virginia  opened  the  door,  "So  it  was 
you,  Jacob;  we  heard  your  horse  floundering  through  the  mud  after 
us  all  the  way  out  from  town  and  wondered  who  it  was." 

"Yes,  it  was  I,  doctor,"  but  Benson  looked  past  him  to  Virginia, 
who  stood  in  the  doorway  shading  the  light  she  held  with  one  hand. 
There  was  a  brief  silence;  the  doctor  seemed  to  smile  behind  the 
turned-up  collar  of  his  great  coat.  The  lawyer  spoke  first. 

"I  trust  you  are  not  ill,  Mrs.  Landray?"  he  said. 

"I  ?  Oh,  no,  Mr.  Benson  —  pray  come  in." 

The  doctor  grinned  at  Virginia,  who  gave  him  a  slightly  embar- 
rassed glance;  and  Benson  noting  it,  felt  somehow  that  he  was  in 
the  way;  yet  he  followed  the  physician  into  the  hall  and  closed  the 
door.  In  the  library,  Dr.  Harrison  promptly  divested  himself  of  his 
outer  coat  and  fell  to  warming  his  hands  before  the  fire.  Benson 
stood  at  a  little  distance  fingering  the  rim  of  his  hat,  and  wondering 
who  was  ill  since  it  was  not  Virginia. 

"You  must  have  had  a  very  disagreeable  ride,  doctor,"  Virginia 
was  saying. 

"I'll  leave  Jacob  to  speak  of  that;  he  couldn't  have  enjoyed  it  any 
more  than  I  did."  He  smiled  again;  then  picking  up  his  case  of  med- 
icines he  quitted  the  room. 

"Won't  you  come  nearer  the  fire,  Mr.  Benson?"  said  Virginia; 
her  words  were  civil  enough,  but  there  was  the  old  hostility  in  her 
manner,  which  Benson  had  never  been  able  to  explain. 

"I  rather  fear  I've  chosen  a  poor  time  for  my  »call,"  he  ob- 
served. 

"If  it  is  to  see  Mrs.  Walsh  - 

"It  is  to  see  Mrs.  Walsh,"  he  replied. 

"She  is  not  well." 

"I'm  very  sorry.  It's  nothing  serious,  I  hope?"  he  said. 

He  drew  forward  a  chair,  and  seated  himself  with  no  little  com- 
posure before  the  fire. 

"I  am  not  detaining  you?"  he  said  suddenly,  half  rising. 

"No,  I  think  not;  Martha  is  with  her." 

He  wondered  vaguely  at  her  reticence  regarding  Jane. 

"There's  a  good  deal  of  sickness,"  he  said,  as  one  presenting  a 
valuable  fact  for  her  consideration. 

"So  I  hear." 

"I  fear  her  affairs  are  in  a  rather  bad  way,"  he  continued,  suddenly 
recalled  to  the  ostensible  purpose  of  his  visit. 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN  131 

"You  have  heard  from  her  husband's  brother  then?''  said  Vir« 
ginia  quickly. 

"Not  from  him  personally,  but  from  a  lawyer  in  New  York  for 
whom  I  occasionally  transact  business  here." 

"Oh!"  and  Virginia  waited  for  him  to  go  on. 

"I  gather  that  this  brother  of  Walsh's  is  entirely  irresponsible. 
In  the  first  place  his  business  did  not  fail;  he  disposed  of  it  at  a  re- 
munerative figure." 

"And  the  money  which  was  left  for  Jane  is  lost  ?"  asked  Virginia. 

"That  seems  to  be  the  case.  In  fact  Walsh  has  himself  sailed  for 
California." 

They  were  silent.  Benson  had  said  all  there  was  to  say,  yet  he 
made  no  move  to  go.  That  he  had  not  seen  Mrs.  Walsh  did  not  mat- 
ter since  the  real  purpose  of  his  drive  to  the  farm  had  been  accom- 
plished. He  had  seen  Virginia;  he  had  lacked  the  strength  to  deny 
himself  this  perilous  joy.  Away  from  her  he  forgot  rebuffs  and 
slights;  he  remembered  only  her  beauty,  the  depths  of  her  eyes;  the 
poise  of  her  head;  some  swift  graceful  gesture;  and  he  lived  in  the 
spell  of  these  things;  and  the  desire,  strong  and  not  to  be  denied, 
to  see  her,  would  assert  itself.  To  be  near  her  was  to  feel  himself  en- 
nobled, to  thrill  with  a  curious  sense  of  purification;  but  he  was  con- 
scious that  his  feeling  for  her,  which  had  grown  out  of  a  boyish  ad- 
miration for  a  woman's  beauty  that  seemed  finer  and  nobler  than 
anything  he  had  known  in  a  woman  before,  was  sweeping  him  away 
by  imperceptible  gradations  from  all  his  ideals  of  conduct  and  man- 
hood; yet  he  would  have  been  loath  to  call  this  secret  ecstasy  he  knew 
in  her  presence,  love.  In  his  moments  of  self-searching  he  told  him- 
self that  her  indifference  more  than  punished  him  for  the  pleasure 
he  derived  from  being  near  her;  but  he  expected  to  suffer;  that  was 
something  he  could  not  hope  to  escape. 

Virginia  moved  impatiently. 

"I  will  tell  Jane  all  you  have  told  me,  when  I  think  she  is  able  to 
bear  it.  It  will  be  a  terrible  disappointment  to  her."  Then  she  shot 
him  a  swift  glance.  "You  have  not  heard  from  Stephen  ?"  she  spoke 
unsteadily,  and  to  Benson  it  seemed  reluctantly  as  well. 

"Not  since  he  left  Fort  Laramie.  I  suppose  we  can  hardly  realize 
the  difficulties  he  encounters  in  sending  his  letters  East  for  mailing, 
here  we  have  every  modern  convenience;  the  stage  each  day  - 

Her  grave  eyes  were  bent  upon  his  face;  she  was  seeking  to  deter- 
mine the  depth  of  his  conviction. 


132  THE  LANDRAYS 

"What  would  you  do  if  it  was  one  you  loved  who  was  so  strangely 
silent,  who  had  gone,  and  from  whom  you  could  not  hear  ? "  she 
asked. 

He  met  her  glance  helplessly. 

"Perhaps  the  letters  are  lost,"  he  said  at  last. 

"That's  what  every  one  tells  me,"  she  smiled  wearily. 

"It  is  not  an  unreasonable  conjecture,"  he  urged. 

"Nothing  is  unreasonable;  but  nothing  will  satisfy  me  until  I  hear 
from  him." 

"No,  of  course  not." 

"It  was  three  months  ago — three  months  ago  —  that  I  heard 
last!" 

"But  consider  the  difficulties,  the  distance;  I  wouldn't  give 
way  to  —  "  he  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  for  Virginia  had  risen, 
and  moving  swiftly  to  the  window  stood  with  her  back  to  him,  look- 
ing out  into  the  night. 

"Can't  you  explain  his  silence  ?  I  am  dying  for  some  word  of  com- 
fort—  why  don't  you  speak  and  tell  me  he  is  safe!" 

"Most  assuredly  I  think  he  is  safe,  Mrs.  Landray,"  said  Benson, 
^vho  had  also  risen. 

"What  do  you  understand  by  their  silence  then  ?  I've  wanted  to 
ask  you,"  she  turned  toward  him  as  she  spoke. 

Benson  fell  back  a  step,  and  under  her  steady  gaze  his  face  lost 
colour. 

"Why,  I  —  I  hope  for  the  best,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Then  you  do  think  this  silence  means  something  more  than  the 
mere  loss  of  letters  —  you  —  "  she  choked  and  could  not  go  on,  and 
her  hands  went  up  to  her  white  round  throat. 

"No,  no!"  he  cried  hastily.  "God  forbid  that  we  should  think 
anything  but  the  best  for  them;  we  can  hardly  understand  their 
situation,  a  thousand  things  might  stand  in  the  way  of  your 
hearing." 

Her  hands  fell  at  her  side. 

"You  are  a  man;  you  should  know  more  of  these  matters  than  we 
women;  what  are  the  dangers  that  they  may  meet  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  Really,  Mrs.  Landray,  you  exaggerate  the  gravity 
of  their  silence.  You  mustn't  give  way  to  your  fears,"  he  said  with 
gentle  insistance. 

"My  pride,  my  courage,  has  kept  me  up  till  now,  in  Jane's  pres- 
ence and  in  Anna's;  perhaps  because  they  were  weak  too,  weak 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN  I33 

and  helpless   as   only  women  can  be;   but  you  are  a  man,  and   it 
makes  no  difference  to  you!" 

"Pardon  me,  it  makes  every  difference  to  me;  if  you  mean  by  that, 
this  fear  you  have  that  some  harm  has  come  to  them.  I  regard  your 
husband  as  my  best  friend,"  his  voice  shook  with  real  feeling.  "He 
is  one  of  the  few  men  to  whom  I  am  sincerely  attached.  Of  course,  I 
grant  it  is  impossible  that  I  should  feel  this  silence  as  deeply  as  you 
feel  it  —  " 

"Yet  you  urged  him  to  go!" 

"I  —  Mrs.  Landray  ?  Surely  you  cannot  think  that!" 

"You  told  me  so." 

Benson  flushed  hotly  at  her  words.  "Oh,"  he  said  coldly  and  re- 
sentfully. "This  accounts  for  a  good  deal  I  was  at  a  loss  to  explain." 

"  You  mean  — " 

"Your  quite  evident  dislike  for  me." 

"Well,  was  not  that  enough  to  make  me  hate  you?"  she  cried 
fiercely.  She  was  very  beautiful  in  her  wrath,  as  she  stood  before 
him  drawn  up  to  her  fullest  height,  her  head  thrown  back,  and  the 
quick  colour  coming  and  going  on  her  face. 

"It  is  very  unworthy  of  you,"  he  said  indignantly.  "To  hold  this 
against  me  when  I  had  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  his  venture." 

"But  you  told  me  in  the  lane  that  day  that  he  must  go  — 

"Pardon  me,  I  told  you  he  could  not  honourably  withdraw."  It 
was  plain  that  he  was  shaken  by  her  words  and  manner.  "I  warned 
him  in  the  first  instance  that  he  must  be  careful  or  he  would  become 
committed  ;  I  warned  him  repeatedly.  Frankly,  I  thought  the  ven- 
ture singularly  ill-advised  and  rash.  I  told  him  so." 

"He  owed  a  higher  duty  to  me  than  to  any  one  else!  What  does 
money  count  for  beside  my  love  ?  I  have  endured  everything  that  a 
woman  can  endure,  since  he  left;  I  have  been  a  prey  to  every 
imaginable  fear —  " 

"I  am  very  unfortunate  in  that  I  have  earned  your  dislike.  I  shall 
never  cease  to  regret  that,"  he  said  at  last,  furious  with  himself  that 
he  should  have  harboured  a  moment's  resentment  against  her, 
unjust  as  he  felt  her  to  be  in  her  attitude  toward  him. 

While  he  was  speaking  he  had  slipped  his  hand  into  an  inner 
pocket  of  his  coat  where  his  fingers  closed  over  a  letter.  He  debated 
whether  or  not  he  should  show  it  to  Virginia. 

"What  is  there  to  think,  Mrs.  Landray,  but  that  he  is  safe  and 
well  wherever  he  is  ?"  he  said,  after  the  lapse  of  a  moment. 


134  THE  LANDRAYS 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  but  why  are  there  no  letters  ?  If  we  could  only 
hear  from  them!" 

"The  letters  will  come  if  you  will  only  have  patience,"  he  said. 

"Patience!"  and  she  made  him  a  scornful  gesture. 

Benson  drew  the  letter  from  his  pocket.  "Of  course  it  was  quite 
unnecessary,  and  I  can  only  explain  it  on  the  score  of  my  sincere 
regard  for  Stephen  —  "  he  hesitated. 

"A  letter!  It  is  from  Stephen!"  she  cried. 

"No,  I  only  wish  it  were;  but  it  is  from  the  commandant  at  Fort 
Laramie.  I  wrote  him  last  month.  I  thought  since  we  were  not  hear- 
ing from  them  —  my  dear  Mrs.  Landray,  you  need  not  be  alarmed," 
for  Virginia  had  grown  white,  and  had  uttered  a  startled  exclama- 
tion. "This  is  the  reply  to  my  letter,  I  received  it  to-day." 

"May  I  read  it  ?"  she  asked  breathlessly. 

"To  be  sure;"  and  he  handed  her  the  letter. 

"Oh,  thank  you  —  but  why  did  you  not  tell  me  before  ?"  she  added 
reproachfully.  She  did  not  wait  for  him  to  answer,  she  was  already 
devouring  the  letter  with  eager  eyes. 

"You  see  he  says  he  remembers  the  party  perfectly,  and  he  speaks 
of  them  as  in  excellent  health.  That's  very  encouraging,  is  it  not  ?  " 
He  had  feared  she  might  ask  him  why  he  had  written  to  Fort  Lara- 
mie. His  motive  he  would  have  found  difficult  to  explain  even  to 
himself. 

She  finished  reading  the  letter.  "May  I  keep  it  ? "  she  asked. 

"Certainly,  Mrs.  Landray." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Benson,  thank  you  so  much  for  what  you  have  done!" 
and  she  held  out  her  hand. 

He  had  passed  into  her  confidence;  and  his  heart  throbbed  with 
a  sudden  intoxication  that  was  new  and  strange.  But  he  still  feared 
the  questions  she  might  ask,  and  turned  reluctantly  to  the  door. 

"I  thought  the  letter  very  encouraging,"  he  murmured. 

"Must  you  go?" 

"Yes,  it  is  quite  late." 

She  followed  him  into  the  hall,  eager  now  to  make  amends  for  all 
her  former  unkindness. 

"You  have  made  me  very  happy,  Mr.  Benson,  and  it  was  so  kind 
of  you  to  come  out  through  all  this  rain.  I  don't  know  how  you  thought 
to  write!  It  seems  a  very  natural  thing  to  have  done.  It's  not  like 
hearing  from  him,  but  it  is  such  a  comfort  to  know  that  he  was 
well!" 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN  135 

"You  will  hear  from  Stephen  when  he  reaches  Salt  Lake  City," 
he  assured  her  confidently.  "Good-night,  Mrs.  Landray." 

He  threw  open  the  door  and  a  sudden  gust  of  mingled  rain  and 
wind  assailed  him.  Apparently  Virginia  did  not  hear  another  door 
that  was  opened  and  closed  somewhere  in  the  silent  house,  but  Ben- 
son did;  and  he  was  quite  sure  he  caught  the  weak  fretful  cry  of  a 
new-born  child.  A  look  of  sudden  intelligence  crossed  his  face;  he 
blushed  furiously  as  he  hurried  away. 

"I  should  have  known!  Well,  I  guess  I've  plenty  to  learn,  and 
especially  about  women!"  he  murmured. 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN 

TWO  men  had  built  a  fire  beside  a  boulder  that  half  filled  the 
narrow  pass,  and  with  their  feet  toward  the  cold  ashes  of 
this  fire,  still  slept  in  the  friendly  shelter  of  the  rock. 

To  the  west  the  pass  broadened,  forming  a  miniature  valley, 
where  a  partially  dry  watercourse  circled  about  the  base  of  the 
cliff;  on  the  steep  hillside  above,  stunted  pines  clung  among  the 
masses  of  rocks.  The  valley  supported  a  scanty  growth  of  coarse 
grass,  and  here  two  gaunt  mules  fed  and  shivered  in  the  half  light. 
Shadows  filled  the  pass,  but  high  above  in  the  cloudless  sky  the  birds 
sang;  and  long  stretches  of  purple  and  gold  and  orange  rested  on 
the  mountain  side. 

At  last  one  of  the  sleepers  rose  stiffly  from  among  his  blankets 
and  looked  about  him;  then  with  a  stick  he  searched  the  remains  of 
the  camp-fire  until  deep  down  in  the  ashes  he  discovered  a  live  coal, 
he  added  some  dry  grass  and  an  armful  of  fuel,  and  fanned  the  spark 
into  a  blaze,  then  he  gravely  took  a  chew  of  tobacco. 

The  builder  of  the  fire  was  a  lank,  loose-jointed  man  of  thirty, 
with  a  face  disfigured  by  a  ragged  red  beard  of  many  days  growth; 
his  skin  was  sallow  and  his  hair  sun  bleached. 

As  it  had  been  dusk  when  he  went  into  camp  the  night  before,  he 
now  inspected  his  surroundings  with  mild  incurious  eyes.  He  seemed 
quite  emotionless,  to  accept  their  forbidding  aspect  with  a  certain 
languid  indifference,  that  was  almost  weariness;  and  yet  with  an 
inward  secret  satisfaction  since  they  were  as  bad  as  he  had  antici- 
pated; lastly  his  glance  sought  the  ground  and  the  figure  of  the 
sleeping  man. 

Then  he  went  slowly  up  the  pass  and  down  into  the  dry  bed  of  the 
stream  and  paused  beside  a  muddy  pool;  he  had  been  drawn  thither 
by  some  consideration  of  personal  cleanliness,  but  the  pool  did  not 
tempt  him,  for  he  shook  his  head. 

"No,  I  reckon  not,  it's  bad  enough  inside,"  he  drawled  softly;  and 

136 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN  137 

he  went  back  to  the  camp,  where  after  making  choice  of  what  he 
knew  to  be  a  vulnerable  spot,  he  gently  kicked  his  companion. 

"Get  up,  Jim!"  he  said,  as  the  sleeper  moved.  "It's  time  we  was 
stirring." 

Jim  threw  off  his  blankets  and  stood  erect;  he  evidently  had  no 
lingering  prejudice  in  favour  of  cleanliness,  indeed  he  had  gradually 
discarded  each  unessential  labour,  conserving  himself  for  the  hard' 
ship  of  the  trail.  He  Jid  not  even  go  down  to  the  stream  as  the  other 
had  done;  he  merely  put  on  his  hat,  and  his  toilet  was  complete.  His 
companion  took  stock  of  the  omission. 

"I  notice  that  it  ain't  your  day  to  wash,"  he  drawled. 

"It  ain't,"  said  the  other  shortly. 

"  I  reckon  it's  a  mortifying  oversight  to  that  pink  skin  of  yours, 
Mr.  Orphan.  I'd  rather  fancy  having  you  tuck  along  sweet  and  clean 
myself;  but  your  habits  is  your  own  —  " 

"You  bet  they  are." 

His  friend  surveyed  him  with  a  mild  jocularity  of  mien. 

"Well,  they  don't  brag  none  for  you,  but  I  reckon  maybe  you're 
figuring  on  taking  all  of  this  heah  God-forsaken  country  you  can 
right  along  with  you  into  California.  I  certainly  am  glad  it  suits  you." 

Jim  ignored  this,  and  they  ate  their  breakfast  in  silence. 

"You  ain't  saying  much,"  observed  Jim,  as  if  this  was  an  un- 
wonted occurrence. 

"Can't  you  wait  until  I  thaw  out?"  demanded  his  friend  with 
some  asperity.  "I  like  to  froze  last  night ;  give  me  time  ;  opinions 
will  come  to  me  right  lively  when  the  sun  crawls  up  yonder  above 
them  rocks." 

He  moved  leisurely  off  in  the  direction  of  their  mules,  while  Jim 
stowed  away  the  blankets  and  cooking  utensils  in  the  packs.  They 
were  soon  in  the  saddle,  their  mules  limping  wearily  forward.  They 
had  gone  half  a  mile  when  they  crossed  the  dry  bed  of  the  stream; 
its  general  course  until  now  had  been  nearly  parallel  with  their 
trail. 

"This  must  be  the  head  waters  of  Flynn's  Fork,"  said  Jim. 

"I  reckon  Flynn  was  a  pretty  mean  spirited  cuss  or  he  would  never 
have  named  such  a  dribbling  chuck  hole  after  himself,"  observed  his 
companion.  Then  he  added,  "Perhaps  he  was  killed  by  the  Indians 
heah  about  and  his  friends  did  the  naming;  all  I  got  to  say  is  it  was 
a  mighty  mean  advantage  to  take  of  a  dead  man." 

"Thawed  out?"  inquired  his  companion. 


138  THE  LANDRAYS 

"Not  entirely,"  and  he  lapsed  into  silence  for  another  half  mile. 

They  had  met  for  the  first  time  on  the  banks  of  the  Missouri.  In 
the  party  to  which  they  had  then  belonged  were  forty  wagons  and 
over  a  hundred  men,  representing  almost  every  state  in  the  Union; 
but  the  cholera  had  broken  out  among  them  just  as  they  were  com- 
mencing their  journey,  and  had  followed  them  into  the  mountains  be- 
yond Fort  Laramie.  Their  numbers  had  dwindled  day  by  day;  many 
died,  but  many  more  had  turned  back.  Then  their  overloaded  teams 
failed  them;  they  had  thrown  away  the  bulk  of  their  belongings,  but 
still  their  stock  gave  out;  for  thousands  of  teams  had  been  before 
them,  and  grass  was  scarce  along  the  line  of  march.  At  last,  these  two, 
abandoning  their  wagons  and  taking  two  of  the  best  mules  remain- 
ing to  them,  set  out  alone  for  the  land  of  promise. 

At  Fort  Bridger  they  had  fallen  in  with  a  truthful  trapper  who  had 
told  them  of  a  route  into  Salt  Lake  by  way  of  the  Weber,  which  he 
had  declared  to  be  practicable  for  mounted  men  ;  he  had  further 
drawn  them  a  map  of  the  country,  whose  accuracy  was  a  source  of 
constant  joy  to  the  red-whiskered  man,  who  had  himself  written  in 
the  names  of  the  mountains  and  rivers. 

Jim  came  from  Illinois.  All  his  life  had  been  passed  on  the  frontier, 
where  there  was  still  the  mystery  and  romance  of  new  lands  into 
which  men  went  and  from  which  they  sometimes  returned  with  tales 
of  wonder  for  the  credulous;  and  Jim,  a  meek  and  silent  lad,  had 
cherished  a  chilling  fear  that  the  last  Indian  would  be  killed,  and 
the  last  beaver  trapped  before  he  could  quit  his  home. 

He  had  told  his  companion,  while  under  the  spell  of  the  other's 
frank  confidence  concerning  himself,  that  his  father  had  only  re- 
cently died. 

"It  was  him  being  so  old  and  all  crippled  up  that  held  me,"  he 
had  said.  "Or  you  bet  I'd  a  been  out  here  long  ago.  Of  course  I  knew 
he  couldn't  last  forever,  but  when  he  did  go,  I  had  such  a  heap  of 
trouble  settling  up  and  selling  out,  some  times  I  almost  wished  he 
hadn't  died  at  all." 

And  his  friend,  bearing  in  mind  this  recent  bereavement,  usually 
addressed  him  as  "Mr.  Orphan." 

After  they  crossed  the  dry  bed  of  the  stream,  the  valley  narrowed 
to  a  pass  again;  and  the  jutting  rocks  seemed  almost  to  touch  high 
above  their  heads. 

The  red-whiskered  man  spoke  again  in  his  soft  drawl. 

"Ain't  this  the  doggondest  country?  And  I  was  well  fixed  back 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN  r3g 

yonder  in  old  Missouri.  I  owned  as  good  a  farm  as  ever  lay  out  doors; 
right  on  the  river  it  was,  and  I  was  selling  rotten  fence  rails  to  steam- 
boats at  cord  wood  prices.  I  certainly  wish  I  was  roosting  on  that 
old  punk  pile  of  mine  right  now  —  I  do  so." 

Jim  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Seems  like  I've  heard  of  that  farm 
of  yours  before,  maybe  it  was  yesterday,"  he  said  with  fine  sar- 
casm. 

"Why,  you  dough-faced  son  of  a  gun,  I  bet  there  ain't  such  land  in 
the  whole  State  of  Illinoy.  Illinoy!  I  like  to  bust  when  I  hear  a  man 
talk  of  Illinoy!" 

"  Like  enough,"  said  Jim  stolidly. 

The  Missourian  groaned  aloud.  "Eight  head  of  mules  gone  to 
thunder,  and  they  was  good  mules,  too;  two  wagons,  and  a  whole 
raft  of  other  stuff;  why,  man,  we  began  to  chuck  away  dry-goods, 
and  grub,  and  lickers,  and  tools,  from  the  time  we  crossed  the 
Platte!" 

"Well,  we  wasn't  the  only  one's  done  it,"  retorted  Jim. 

"No,"  said  the  Missourian,  "we  wasn't.  I  ain't  complaining,  but 
I  want  this  heah  country  to  know  what  I  think  of  it;  for  I  don't  reckon 
I'll  ever  pass  this  way  again  —  not  any!"  with  emphasis;  then  he 
subsided  into  his  usual  drawl.  "Say,  I  reckon  it's  a  whole  heap  nearer 
hell  than  any  other  section  of  these  heah  United  States." 

He  relapsed  into  silence,  and  they  rode  on  without  speech  for  an- 
other half  mile;  then  the  Missourian  spoke  again,  sadly,  plaintively. 

"I  was  certainly  doing  well  back  yonder.  I  was  making  money 
hand  over  fist;  and  like  a  doggone  fool  I  had  to  lope  off  out  heah.  I 
had  no  more  gumption  than  that!" 

"Well,  this  suits  me,"  said  Jim. 

"I  suspicioned  it  did;  but  I  allow  if  any  one  had  a  told  me  a  year 
ago  that  I'd  be  tackling  a  thousand  miles  of  God  knows  what,  with 
these  heah  legs  of  mine  hung  over  a  spavined,  wind-broke,  saddle- 
galled,  caterpiller  of  a  mule,  I'd  a  been  fighting  mad;  but  the  Lord's 
with  us,  Mr.  Orphan,  He  says  you  mustn't  be  in  any  thing  of  a  sweat 
for  riches  —  and  we  all  certainly  ain't.  My,  what  a  country!  Nary  a 
drop  of  water  fit  to  drink;  nary  a  stick  of  timber  fit  to  burn;  nary  a 
blade  of  grass;  but  I  reckon  it  will  get  some  better  when  we  strike  the 
Mormon  country.  Ever  know  anything  about  the  Mormons  in  Illi- 
noy, Jim  ?" 

Jim  shook  his  head. 

The  Missourian  continued.  "  I  know'd  'em  in  Missouri  before  they 


140  THE  LANDRAYS 

was  run  out  of  the  State.  It  must  be  a  mighty  nourishing  belief  for  a 
man  who  ain't  no  ways  industrious  himself  and  yet  likes  to  see  things 
going  forward,  but  it  must  be  powerful  harassing  on  the  ladies.  Still, 
I  reckon  it's  a  lot  easier  for  a  dozen  ladies  to  support  one  man,  than 
for  one  man  to  support  a  dozen  ladies.  If  I  was  a  Mormon,  I  allow 
that's  the  way  I  would  look  at  it. "  He  turned  to  his  companion,  but 
Jim's  glance  was  fixed  ahead;  he  was  giving  no  heed  to  what  his 
friend  was  saying,  but  the  latter  was  in  no  wise  discouraged  by  his 
lack  of  interest,  "I  seen  Jo  Smith  before  he  was  killed;  I  may  say 
I  knowed  him  slightly." 

"Did  you  have  a  hand  in  that  ?"  asked  Jim,  and  he  now  displayed 
a  languid  interest,  but  the  Missourian  shook  his  head. 

"No,  you  bloodthirsty  cuss,  and  I'm  mighty  glad  I  didn't." 

By  a  glance  Jim  inquired  why. 

"Well,  you  see,  there's  been  a  right  smart  fatality  among  them 
that  did;  considerable  many  of  them  has  died  since.  This  heah  Smith 
was  a  prophet;  he  run  the  whole  doggone  shootin'  match;  he  done  it 
by  revelation  ;  and  no  matter  what  he'd  said  before,  or  promised, 
or  sworn  to,  if  he  changed  his  mind,  all  he  done,  was  to  get  a  new 
revelation;  and  in  the  end  it  was  these  heah  revelations  that  soured 
his  dough;  a  man  who  got  his  orders  direct  from  the  Lord,  people 
found  wa'n't  a  good  neighbour.  It  made  him  too  blame  arrogant,  for 
one  thing. " 

They  had  ascended  a  long,  rocky  incline,  and  had  gone  down  a 
steep  boulder-strewn  declivity;  now  the  walls  of  the  pass  fell  away 
and  they  entered  a  wide  valley;  it  was  crescent-shaped,  and  possibly 
fifteen  miles  in  length,  while  its  breadth  was  half  that.  It  was  without 
timber  except  for  a  sparse  growth  which  could  be  distinguished  to- 
ward the  west.  Both  men  knew  there  would  be  no  water  until  they 
reached  this  timber,  for,  as  they  moved  along,  the  level  plain  became 
more  and  more  barren,  while  from  under  the  feet  of  their  mules  a 
fine  white  dust  arose  and  enveloped  them. 

Presently  the  Missourian  reined  in  his  mule,  and  pointed  with  a 
long  forefinger  to  something  on  the  ground  in  front  of  of  him. 

"Look  heah,  Mr.  Orphan,  what  do  you  make  of  those  there  ?" 

Jim  answered  with  a  slightly  nettled  air. 

"Wagon  tracks.  What  did  you  suppose  I'd  make  of  them  ?" 

"Yes,  but  they  are  going  our  way —  see  where  that  mule  planted 
a  hoof  beside  yonder  bunch  of  cactus  ?  How  do  you  reckon  they  got 
heah  ?  They  couldn't  have  come  up  the  trail  we  came  by;  you 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN  141 

couldn't  drag  a  Wagon  through  there  for  the  rocks,  not  to  save  your 
neck!" 

"That's  so!"  agreed  Jim.  "But  I  reckon  there's  a  way  in  below." 
He  glanced  over  his  shoulder.  "You  can  see  where  their  trail  runs  off 
to  the  south. " 

"I  reckon  that's  it."  said  the  Missourian. 

It  was  some  hours  later  when  the  afternoon  was  wearing  to  a  close, 
that  the  Missourian  called  his  friend's  attention  to  a  low  hill  which 
rose  from  the  perfectly  level  plain.  As  they  neared  it,  two  buzzards 
rose  lazily  from  the  summit  of  this  hill;  and  a  grey  object,  the  size  of  a 
mongrel  dog,  fled  down  its  nearest  slope  and  skurried  away  toward 
the  timber.  The  Missourian  noticed  this;  nothing  escaped  his  mild, 
incurious  eyes. 

"I  wonder  what's  up  yonder.  Hello!  Right  smart  of  a  crowd's  been 
heah.  How  old  do  you  reckon  them  signs  is,  Jim  ?"  and  he  drew  in  his 
mule, 

Jim  scrutinized  the  ground  before  he  answered. 

"Horses  this  time;  ain't  it?  Maybe  they  are  a  week  old,"  but  he 
unslung  the  long  rifle  he  carried  attached  to  his  saddle;  seeing  which 
the  Missourian  laughed. 

"Now,  what  do  you  allow  to  use  that  on,  Jim  ?  Don't  you  see  it 
ain't  Indians  ?  Most  of  these  bosses  had  their  forefeet  shod.  Emi- 
grants, don't  you  reckon?" 

He  pushed  back  his  hat,  and  leaned  languidly  forward  in  his 
saddle. 

"They  seem  to  have  been  doing  right  smart  cavorting  about  heah, 
don't  they  ?  Some  pretty  aimless  riding  for  folks  who  was  going  any- 
where in  particular  —  no  —  "  slowly,  "they  certainly  seemed  pushed 
for  time  —  these  bosses  was  on  the  jump.  Say,  Jim,  why  do  you 
reckon  they  was  on  the  jump  ?"  He  moved  forward  a  step  or  two, 
with  his  mild  eyes  still  fixed  on  the  ground.  "Fact  is,  they^seem  to 
have  been  riding  in  a  sort  of  a  circle  about  this  heah  hill  - 

A  dark  shadow  slipped  across  the  sandy  plain,  and  the  Mis- 
sourian glanced  up  quickly.  It  was  another  buzzard;  but  it  was  wing- 
ing its  way  toward  the  hill.  His  glance  followed  it  —  it  flew  straight, 
with  large  lazy  flappings. 

"That  bird  certainly  knows  where  it's  going,  and  it  ain't  wasting 
no  time  in  getting  there;  what  do  you  reckon's  on  that  hill,  Jim  ?" 

Jim  moved  uneasily  in  his  saddle,  but  he  managed  to  say  with 
tolerable  composure. 


I42  THE  LANDRAYS 

"If  you're  so  blame  curious,  why  don't  you  go  see  ?" 

"Well,  I'm  doggone  certain  if  I  left  it  to  you  we'd  never  know." 

"We  wouldn't,"  the  other  said  positively. 

"Well,  you  hold  my  mule;  I'm  going  up."  He  swung  himself  out 
of  the  saddle,  and  strode  off  up  the  hill.  He  gained  the  summit,  and 
paused  there,  a  tall  dark  figure  against  the  red  of  the  sunset. 

"Oh,  Jim!"  Come  heah!"  he  presently  called. 

"What  in  blazes  do  you  expect  me  to  do  with  my  mule  and  yours  ?" 
Jim  answered  angrily. 

"Turn  them  loose,  they'll  make  for  the  water,  it  ain't  more  than 
a  mile  or  two  from  heah,"  advised  the  Missourian,  with  placid  good 
nature.  "Bring  your  gun,"  he  added,  and  then  he  stepped  forward  a 
pace,  and  Jim  saw  only  the  top  of  his  battered  hat  bobbing  about. 

When  Jim  joined  him  he  was  digging  in  a  great  pile  of  ashes  with 
ihe  charred  spoke  of  a  wagon-wheel.  At  a  little  distance  from  him 
were  the  remains  of  numerous  mules.  The  Missourian  looked  up  from 
his  work  as  Jim  approached. 

"There  was  at  least  three  wagons  burnt  heah;  I  can  tell  that  by  the 
iron  work  I've  found;  but  most  of  their  loads  must  have  been  carried 
off,  or  else  they  was  pretty  nearly  empty." 

Jim  received  this  information  with  stolid  indifference;  had  the  Mis- 
sourian called  him  there  to  tell  him  that  ? 

"I  wonder  why  they  took  the  trouble  to  burn  their  wagons?" 
continued  the  Missourian.  "You'd  a  thought  if  they  had  wanted  to 
get  shut  of  them  they'd  just  left  them. " 

And  now  Jim's  ill-temper  mastered  him. 

"They  was  probably  figuring  on  some  damn  fool  happening  along 
this  way  —  "  he  began,  but  the  Missourian  cut  him  short. 

"They  must  have  had  you  in  mind  then,"  he  said.  "Hold  on,  Mr. 
Orphan,  can  you  tell  me  why  these  heah  parties  pulled  up  to  the  top 
of  this  heah  hill?" 

"To  burn  their  wagons,"  retorted  Jim  sarcastically.  "Ain't  that 
plain?" 

"And  why  did  they  want  to  burn  their  outfit  ?" 

"Because  their  stock  had  all  give  out;  that's  plain,  ain't  it?" 
said  Jim  promptly. 

"Exactly;  and  the  stock  gave  out  the  minute  the  wagons  was 
burnt;  but  I  don't  reckon  you  see  anything  curious  in  that,"  re- 
torted the  Missourian  triumphantly. 

While  they  were  speaking,  he  had  been  pursuing  his  investigations 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN  143 

in  a  constantly  widening  circle.  Now  he  stepped  quickly  toward  a 
shallow  ditch  the  rains  had  cut  in  the  south  slope  of  the  hill.  Jim  was 
at  his  side,  and  the  two  men  came  to  a  sudden  pause  on  the  bank  of  this 
ditch. 

"I  guess  it's  a  bundle  of  bedding — or  clothes —  "  said  Jim 
nervously,  and  with  a  tremor  in  his  voice. 

"I  reckon  there's  another  guess  coming  to  you,"  said  the  Missour- 
ian  as  he  cautiously  slipped  into  the  ditch. 

"I'd  be  careful  if  it  was  me.  Maybe  it  was  the  cholera," 
cautioned  Jim. 

"Hell!  I  never  thought  of  that!"  and  the  Missourian  sprang  back 
to  the  bank.  There  was  silence  while  they  looked  into  each  other's 
eyes. 

"Man,  there  was  five  of  them!"  said  the  Missourian  at  last  in  a 
hoarse,  shocked  whisper,  and  his  bearded  lips  quivered.  "I  noticed 
a  part  of  a  shovel  and  a  right  good  pick  back  by  where  the  wagons 
was  burnt;  don't  you  reckon  we  could  spare  the  time  to  heave  this 
heah  bank  in  on  top  of  them  —  those  damn  buzzards  — 

"Look  here,  pardner,  I'm  all  for  getting  out  of  this.  I  wouldn't 
expect  any  one  to  bury  me  if  I  up  and  died  of  the  cholera,"  said 
Jim. 

"I'm  not  so  doggone  sure  it  was  the  cholera;  hand  me  that  stick, 
I'm  going  to  find  out,"  and  he  slid  back  into  the  ditch.  He  worked 
in  silence  with  the  stick  for  a  moment  while  Jim  watched  spellbound, 
fearing  to  stay  and  yet  not  daring  to  leave,  for  their  discovery  had 
filled  that  wide  solitude  with  a  sudden  chilling  horror.  "No,  this 
gentleman's  got  a  bullet  hole  in  his  head  —  that  ain't  the  cholera." 
There  was  another  pause  while  the  Missourian  was  busy  with  the 
stick  ;  then  perspiring  but  indefatigable  he  spoke  once  more. 

"Look  heah,  Jim,  right  through  the  heart;  you  can  see  where  his 
shirt's  all  bloody.  Me  and  you  have  seen  enough  of  cholera  to  know 
that  ain't  the  way  it  takes  a  man."  The  stick  was  used  again.  "This 
heah  consumptive  looking  chap's  all  shot  to  pieces;  whoever  done  it 
made  a  sieve  out  of  him. "  He  gained  the  ditch  bank. 

"  I  wish  I  had  a  good  drink  of  licker  right  now, "  said  Jim  weakly. 

"Same  here,"  echoed  the  Missourian.  "Well,"  said  he,  after  a 
moment's  reflection,  "it  ain't  a  job  I  hanker  for,  but  I'm  going 
through  their  pockets.  I  am  going  to  see  who  they  was  and  where 
they  come  from.  You  go  fetch  that  pick  and  shovel;  we'll  be 
ready  for  them  in  a  minute. " 


144  THE  LANDRAYS 

But  he  was  white  faced  and  shaking  when  his  fruitless  search  was 
finished.  He  had  found  nothing  that  served  to  throw  any  light  on  the 
identity  of  the  dead  men. 

"There  ain't  the  scratch  of  a  pen  about  any  of  them;  no  letters  — 
no  papers  —  no  nothing.  Somebody's  been  ahead  of  me. " 

"I  wouldn't  have  did  what  you  just  done  for  five  hundred  dollars!" 
declared  Jim. 

"I  wouldn't  either  —  for  the  money,"  said  the  Missourian.  "Give 
me  the  pick. " 

The  two  men  attacked  the  bank  with  feverish  energy  and  their 
task  was  soon  finished;  then  the  Missourian  said: 

"Now  we'll  just  take  one  more  look  about  among  those  cinders 
and  then  we'll  get  away  from  heah  just  as  fast  as  the  Lord  will  let  us. 
I  seen  places  I  liked  a  heap  better. " 

But  the  search  revealed  nothing  new. 

"Who  do  you  allow  done  it  ?  Indians  ?"  asked  Jim,  as  they  hurried 
away  in  the  direction  their  mules  had  taken. 

"Who  else  would  it  be?" 

"No  one  else,  judging  from  the  way  they'd  been  used-  They  — 

"Shut  up!"  cried  the  Missourian  with  sudden  fierceness,  "I  ain't 
likely  to  forget  how  they  was  used!  Good  God!  That's  going  to  stick 
in  my  crop  to  the  end  of  my  days,  I  reckon  —  don't  you  rub  it  in!" 

"Well,  you  done  what  was  white!"  said  Jim,  with  unexpected  and 
generous  enthusiasm. 

But  for  the  rest  of  that  day  and  far  into  the  night,  they  could  talk 
and  think  of  nothing  else  than  those  dead  men  in  the  ditch. 


CHAPTER   NINETEEN 

THE  Missourian  and  Jim  camped  on  the  edge  offhefnTiber.  So 
little  of  the  day  was  remaining  to  them  after  they  left  the  hill 
that  they  had  been  forced  to  stop  here;  but  they  were?  in  the 
saddle  again  with  the  first  pale  glimmer  of  light  that  shot  across  the 
plain. 

"We'll  tuck  along  out  of  heah  in  pretty  considerable  of  a  hurry, 
Jim,"  said  the  Missourian. 

They  crossed  the  narrow  bottom  and  entered  the  mountains;  but 
before  these  quite  closed  about  them,  moved  by  common  impulse, 
they  turned  for  a  last  look  at  the  hill. 

"I  certainly  am  proud  to  see  the  end  of  that!"  observed  the  Mis- 
sourian as  he  faced  ahead  once  more. 

"You  bet  I  wouldn't  care  to  loaf  around  there  none;  most  any 
place'd  suit  me  better, "  and  Jim  took  a  long,  deep  breath. 

"I  tell  you,  Mr.  Orphan,  daylight's  a  thundering  fine  thing,  and 
I'm  going  to  hanker  for  it  for  twenty-four  hours  at  a  stretch  from  now 
on  for  right  smart  of  a  spell.  What  sleep  I  took  last  night  I  took  in 
jerks;  and  what,  between  seeing  Indians  and  finding  dead  men, 
there  was  no  manner  of  comfort  in  it." 

"I  was  some  that  way  myself,"  admitted  Jim. 

"But  there's  a  thing  or  two  I  can't  just  understand,  Jim;  there 
wasn't  so  much  as  the  broken  haft  of  an  arrow  anywhere  about 
that  hill;  and  a  many  of  them  bosses  was  shod  all  round." 

"What  do  you  think  ?"  asked  Jim. 

"Well,  I  reckon  I  don't  think  —  I'm  plumb  beat." 

"I'd  like  mighty  well  to  have  learned  who  they  was,  and  where 
they  came  from.  I  reckon  they  got  friends  and  kin  back  in  the  States 
who  wouldn't  mind  hearing  what  had  become  of  them,"  said 
Jim. 

"I  guess  there's  no  use  our  figuring  on  finding  that  out;  rt^ainnoy- 
ing,  but  it  can't  be  helped,"  and  the  Missourian  shook  his  head  with 

'45 


145  THE  LANDRAYS 

an  air  of  settled  conviction;  "I  done  my  best;  I  went  through  'em  for 
papers  or  letters;  but  you  seen  there  was  nary  the  scratch  of  a  pen. " 

"I  had  a  brother  once,"  began  Jim,  with  an  air  of  reminiscent 
melancholy,  "George  was  his  name;  and  he  was  some  older  than  me. 
He  went  like  that;  leastways  he  just  sort  of  never  came  back  to 
explain  what  was  keeping  him.  He  crossed  the  Mississippi  to  hunt 
and  never  showed  up  any  more.  We  'lowed  after  a  time  the  Indians 
had  got  him  all  right;  and  when  folk!,  would  come  round  the  place 
asking  if  we'd  heard  anything  new  about  George,  it  was  powerful 
distressing  to  mother  ;  she'd  a  sort  of  special  fancy  for  George. " 

After  this  they  continued  in  silence  for  a  little  time,  and  then,  as 
usual,  it  was  the  Missourian  who  renewed  the  conversation. 

"Who  do  you  reckon  had  a  leg  over  them  shod  hosses,  Jim  ?"  he 
asked. 

"I  ain't  the  least  idea  in  the  world,  unless  it  was  redskins,"  Jim 
responded. 

"  I  guess  you're  right,  maybe.  It  must  have  been  redskins. "  Yet  it 
was  plain  that  he  was  not  satisfied,  for  again  and  again  as  the  mor- 
ning advanced  he  returned  to  the  subject.  Finally,  however,  he  seemed 
to  weary  of  fruitless  theorizing,  for  he  drew  the  map  with  which  the 
trapper  at  Fort  Bridger  had  furnished  him,  from  his  pocket,  and  fell 
to  studying  it. 

"He  was  a  right  clever  cuss,  Jim  —  we've  covered  each  day  just 
about  the  distances  he  said  we  would;  I've  marked  'em  all  off.  At  this 
rate  about  four  days  more  will  fetch  us  out  at  Raymond's  ranch  on 
the  bench  above  Salt  Lake;  that's  the  first  Mormon  settlement  we 
strike.  He  was  sort  of  sour  on  Mormons  in  general,  but  he  spoke  well 
of  this  heah  Raymond.  " 

The  contemplation  of  the  map,  and  the  prospect  of  so  soon  reach- 
ing the  valley  had  a  noticeably  cheering  effect  on  him;  he  began  to 
sing,  and  the  song  was  a  classic  of  the  trail. 

"OberJter,  be  dreampt  a  dream, 
Dream  ft  be  was  drivin*  a  ten  mule  team. 
But  when  he  woke,  he  heaved  a  sigh, 
The  lead  mule  kicked  out  the  swing  mule's  eye." 

But  he  got  no  further  than  the  end  of  the  first  verse  when  the 
words  suddenly  died  on  his  lips;  he  reined  in  his  mule  and  turned  to 
Jim. 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN  147 

"We  seem  to  have  found  their  trail,  and  they  seem  to  be  going  in 
toward  the  valley;  do  you  see  that  ?"  he  said. 

"I  noticed,"  answered  Jim  laconically. 

The  Missourian  dismounted  and  examined  the  signs  which  had 
compelled  his  attention.  His  examination  was  brief,  however,  and 
when  he  settled  himself  in  the  saddle  again,  he  said  quietly: 

"It's  them  all  right.  You  and  me's  got  company  ahead  of  us, 
Jim." 

"They  got  plenty  start  of  us,"  said  Jim,  moving  restlessly  in  his 
saddle. 

"That's  so,  these  signs  are  all  of  a  week  old.  We  dassent  take  any 
chances  trying  to  find  another  road  into  the  valley." 

"Scarcely,"  said  Jim,  with  a  vague,  uneasy  smile. 

An  hour  later  they  came  upon  a  spot  where  the  party  preceding 
them  had  evidently  camped,  for  the  ground  was  trampled  and  bare 
where  their  horses  had  been  picketed.  Here,  too,  were  a  variety  of 
bulky  articles  of  comparatively  small  value. 

"They  seem  to  have  been  getting  shut  of  a  good  deal  of  their  stuff 
heah,"  was  the  Missourian's  comment. 

"We  know  how  that  goes,"  said  Jim. 

"I  reckon  they  was  sort  of  dividing  up  their  plunder,  and  chucked 
out  what  they  didn't  think  worth  toting  farther;  for  you  see  this 
couldn't  well  have  been  a  night  camp.  I  'low  they  must  have  halted 
heah  about  midday.  You  notice  their  bosses  was  picketed  close,  not 
turned  out  to  graze;  if  it  had  been  a  night  camp,  a  party  this  size 
would  have  let  their  stock  range,  because  there  was  plenty  of  them  to 
herd  it  through  the  night. " 

From  this  point  on,  for  perhaps  a  mile,  the  signs  were  quite  plain, 
and  then  the  party  appeared  to  have  broken  up;  one  well-marked 
trail  led  off  to  the  south;  another  kept  on  toward  the  west;  but 
presently  this,  too,  turned  into  a  branching  pass  and  was  lost. 

"Humph!"  said  the  Missourian.  "Those  was  mostly  the  shod 
hosses;  pretty  singular,  ain't  it  ?" 

But  it  was  evident  that  both  he  and  Jim  experienced  a  sense  of 
positive  relief. 

All  that  morning  they  had  ,oiled  through  the  mountains;  but  to- 
ward the  middle  of  the  afternoon  they  emerged  upon  a  high  Bridge; 
here  there  was  good  grass  and  a  scattering  growth  of  small  timber. 
They  crossed  the  ridge  and  descending  found  themselves  in  a  fertile, 
well-watered  valley. 


1 48  THE  LANDRAYS 

"We'll  camp  heah,"  said  the  Missourian,  with  a  sweeping  gesture 
"Yonder,  by  that  thicket  —  a  stream  heads  there." 

As  they  neared  the  spot  he  had  designated,  Jim,  who  was  riding  a 
pace  or  two  in  advance  and  to  his  right,  all  at  once  swung  around  his 
long  rifle.  But  the  Missourian  threw  up  his  hand  in  protest. 

"Don't  shoot,  Jim!"  he  called,  urging  his  mule  into  a  shuffling 
trot. 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  stealthy,  guarded  movement  in  the 
tangled  undergrowth  they  were  approaching.  Jim,  whose  sense  of 
sight  and  hearing  were  strained  to  the  utmost,  heard  a  dead  branch 
snap  loudly,  and  then  he  saw  a  small,  vague  object  appear  on  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  thicket,  and  run  limping  away.  His  nerves  were  quite 
shattered  by  the  events  of  the  previous  day,  but  here  was  something 
tangible,  something  at  which  to  shoot,  and,  in  his  present  frame  of 
mind,  the  mere  noise  of  his  gun  in  that  sombre  solitude  would  have 
been  a  consolation;  but  the  Missourian's  ear  caught  the  ominous 
click  of  the  lock  as  he  drew  back  the  hammer. 

"Don't  shoot,  you  blame  fool!"  he  called  again  as  he  crashed 
through  the  thicket  in  pursuit  of  the  fleeing  object.  The  race  was  a 
short  one,  and  through  an  opening  in  the  brush  Jim  saw  his  friend  rein 
in  his  mule  suddenly  with  a  savage  jerk,  and  swing  himself  from  his 
saddle;  at  the  same  instant  he  heard  him  say: 

" There,  son,  I  ain't  going  to  hurt  you." 

An  instant  later  Jim  broke  through  the  intervening  thicket  himself, 
and  to  his  astonishment  found  the  Missourian  bending  above  the 
prostrate  figure  of  a  child. 

"He  tripped  up  and  fell,  he  was  powerful  keen  to  get  away," 
explained  the  Missourian.  "I  might  have  hollered  at  him  and  saved 
him  the  tumble,"  he  added  regretfully. 

The  boy  was  lying  prone  on  his  back  on  the  ground,  gazing  up  at 
the  two  men.  Bewilderment,  doubt,  and  fear  were  mingled  in  his 
glance.  He  did  not  speak. 

"And  you  wanted  to  shoot  the  little  cuss,  Jim,"  he  was  mildly 
resentful.  "You're  always  in  such  a  sweat  to  use  that  gun  of  your's, 
seems  like  vou'll  not  be  content  until  you  plug  some  one  with  it." 

Jim  merely  looked  at  the  child.  He  saw  that  he  was  wretched 
enough;  that  his  face  and  hands  were  torn  and  bruised,  while  his 
clothes  were  a  fluttering  mass  of  unpicturesque  rags.  The  man's 
mouth  opened  in  silent  wonder. 

"I  certainly  am  mighty  glad  we  found  him,"  said  the  Missourian; 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN  I49 

and  at  these  words  a  look  of  keen  suspicion  flashed  in  the  child's 
eyes.  Then  they  had  been  hunting  for  him!  That  was  what  the  man 
meant! 

"Look  at  him,  Jim,"  continued  the  Missourian,  all  of  whose 
emotions  were  easily  translatable  into  words.  "If  he  ain't  most 
starved  to  death  I  certainly  don't  know  what  starving  is!  He's  all 
skin  and  b?nes  —  what  you  had  to  eat,  son  ?" 

The  child  struggled  to  his  feet  with  difficulty;  he  was,  evidently, 
very  weak,  for  he  shivered  and  trembled  as  he  stood  there.  The  Mis- 
sourian put  out  a  staying  hand. 

"There  was  things  growing  on  the  bushes  —  I  ate  them,"  he 
said  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  begotten  of  hunger,  fatigue,  and  ex- 
posure. 

"Wild  plums  I  reckon  you  mean.  Well,  sir,  me  and  my  pardner 
here  will  fill  your  pinched  little  carcass  full  of  bread  and  bacon.  Wild 
plums!  Hell!  and  him  a  growing  child." 

"Where's  your  folks  ?"  Jim  now  asked,  he  had  found  his  voice  at 
last. 

"I  ain't  got  any,"  replied  the  child  sullenly. 

"You  ain't  got  any  ?  Then  what  in  blazes  are  you  doing  here  all 
by  yourself?"  demanded  Jim;  he  was  quite  indignant. 

The  child  made  no  response  to  this,  but  his  restless  glance  searched 
the  faces  of  the  two  men.  His  expression  was  one  of  dark  mistrust; 
it  almost  seemed  that  he  meditated  flight;  but  the  Missourian's  hand 
was  on  his  shoulder. 

"And  so  you  ain't  got  no  pa  ?"  said  the  latter  ingratiatingly,  for 
he  recognized  something  of  the  boy's  distrust  and  suspicion,  though 
he  was  quite  at  a  loss  to  account  for  it. 

"He's  dead,"  and  his  lips  trembled  pathetically. 

"Dead,"  repeated  the  Missourian  after  him. 

"You  knew  that,"  and  the  child  turned  on  him  with  sudden 
fierceness,  his  small  hands  tightly  clinched,  and  his  eyes  glittering 
feverishly. 

"I  suspicioned  it,"  said  the  Missourian. 

"The  Indians  killed  him!"  the  boy  added  dully. 

"But  I  allow  your  pa  put  up  a  pretty  stiff  fight;  it  was  on  a  hilltop, 
now  warn't  it  ?  and  your  pa  drove  his  teams  up  there  and  took  out  and 
fit  them  from  behind  the  wagons  —  him  and  those  who  was  with 
him?" 

The  child  shrank  from  the  questioner's  touch,  but  he  answered: 


150  THE  LANDRAYS 

"Yes,  it  was  on  a  hill." 

"I  knowed  it,"  declared  the  Missourian  triumphantly. 

"Knowed  what?"  demanded  Jim  with  some  impatience. 

"Why,  this  little  cuss  came  out  of  that  scuffle  back  yonder;  most 
anybody  would  have  guessed  that  but  you,  Jim." 

"And  he  come  here  all  by  himself?  Not  any,"  but  his  friend 
ignored  what  he  said  to  turn  again  to  the  boy. 

"There  were  four  other  men  beside  your  pa  with  the  wagons, 
warn't  there,  son  ?" 

The  child  nodded,  but  his  eyes  still  flashed  with  a  precocious 
sense  of  wrong  and  hate. 

"I  knowed  it,"  declared  the  Missourian  in  triumph  a  second 
time.  "And  it  was  the  Indians  they  fit  with,  you're  sure  about  that  ?" 

"It  was  the  Indians,"  said  the  child  indifferently.  "My  pop  said 
it  was  the  Indians. " 

"I  reckon  he  ought  to  have  knowed,"  said  the  baffled  Missourian. 
"But  they  were  certainly  curious  Indians  from  what  we  seen." 

"It  was  the  Indians,  they  said  they  was  Indians." 

"Who?"  cried  the  Missourian  quickly. 

"The  men,"  answered  the  child. 

"The  Indians  told  you  that,  did  they?  Well,  they  was  real  oblig- 
ing." He  turned  to  Jim.  "I'm  having  doubts  about  these  heah 
Indians." 

"Look  here,  son,  what  was  your  idea  about  them  redskins?" 
asked  Jim. 

The  child  did  not  answer  him,  but  there  came  a  sudden  flash  of 
intelligence  to  his  pinched  little  face  which  the  instant  before  had 
been  quite  expressionless  in  its  abject  misery.  It  was  plain  he  under- 
stood what  the  man  meant  when  he  spoke  of  the  Indians;  then  he 
smiled  slyly,  cunningly. 

"What  I  want  to  know,"  said  Jim,  "is  how  he  got  away  from 
them." 

"That's  so,  son,  how  do  you  happen  to  be  heah  ?" 

"The  Indians  fetched  me  here,"  answered  the  child  readily 
enough. 

"And  left  you  heah?" 

"I  ran  away  in  the  night;  when  they  was  all  asleep. " 

"So  you  fooled  'em  —  well,  you  was  smart;  but  didn't  they  hunt 
for  you  any  afterwards  ? " 

"I  hid  in  the  rocks. "  He  pointed  vaguely  to  the  broken  hills  in  the 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN  I5I 

west. "  They  looked  all  around  for  me  and  never  found  me,  but  I  saw 
them.  Then  they  went  away. " 

"How  long  ago  was  that?" 

The  child  looked  troubled. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  finally  answered. 

"I  'low  you  ain't  forgot  your  name?" 

"No." 

"Well,  what  is  it,  son  ?" 

"  Benny  Rogers, "  then  all  at  once  he  began  to  cry  from  sheer  weak- 
ness and  wretchedness. 

The  two  men  were  puzzled  and  mystified.  There  was  that  one 
point  about  the  Indians  that  they  could  not  understand;  and  yet 
what  they  had  seen  in  the  ditch  was  in  accord  with  their  preconceived 
notions  as  to  Indian  warfare. 

"We'd  better  go  into  camp,  Jim,"  said  the  Missourian.  "You  keep 
hold  of  the  boy  while  I  unsaddle  the  mules  and  turn  them  out,"  but 
midway  in  his  task  he  paused  and  glanced  at  the  child  who  was  still 
crying  softly,  miserably. 

"I  half  believe  the  little  codger  lied  to  us,"  he  muttered.  "Well, 
maybe  it  was  Indians  after  all,  he  surely  ought  to  know." 


CHAPTER   TWENTY 

EPHRIAM  RAYMOND,  standing  in  the  doorway  of  his  ranch 
house,  well  within  the  shadow  of  the  foothills,  was  watching 
two  horsemen  as  they  crept  along  the  trail. 

To  the  west,  where  the  land  dropped  from  bench  to  bench  until  it 
finally  found  the  level  of  the  flat  valley  with  its  farms  and  irrigating 
ditches,  lay  Great  Salt  Lake;  a  gleam  of  sunlight  was  reflected  on  the 
water,  and  a  few  misty  clouds  low  in  the  sapphire  light  betokened  its 
nearness. 

A  year  before,  and  the  trail  had  been  illy  marked  through  the 
mountains;  and  scarcely  more  than  a  trace,  as  it  crossed  the  desert 
beyond,  where  it  wound  its  course  from  failing  streams  which  fought 
the  dry,  thirsty  sands,  on  to  brackish  water  holes  that  were  evil  to 
smell,  and  yet  more  evil  to  drink  from.  But  that  single  season  had 
altered  without  lessening  its  terrors.  It  was  heavy  now  with  alkali 
dust,  dry  with  the  season's  rainless  suns,  and  fine  with  the  grinding 
wheels  of  freight  and  emigrant  wagons;  it  was  further  marked  by  the 
bones  of  cattle  and  horses.  No  one  could  mistake  it  now. 

As  the  two  men  came  nearer,  Ephriam  saw  that  they  were  mounted 
on  mules,  and  that  one  of  the  men,  a  gaunt,  red-whiskered  fellow, 
shared  his  saddle  with  a  child. 

"Is  this  heah  Raymond's  settlement?"  the  latter  demanded, 
reining  in  his  mule  before  the  ranch  house  door. 

"Yes,"  answered  Ephriam.  "Won't  you  light  down?"  he  added. 
He  was  a  kindly,  venerable  man,  with  a  patriarchal  beard  and  long, 
grey  hair;  there  was  more  than  a  touch  of  the  ministerial  in  the  de- 
cent black  broadcloth  suit  he  wore;  the  fact  that  he  was  collariess, 
and  that  his  trousers  were  tucked  in  at  the  tops  of  his  heavy  boots, 
did  not  detract  in  the  least  from  his  palpable  pulpit  dignity. 

"We  will,  elder,  if  it's  agreeable  to  you,  and  we'd  admire  to  fill 
up  on  kitchen  victuals. "  And  the  red-whiskered  man  drew  the  back 
of  his  hand  across  his  bearded  lips. 

is* 


CHAPTER  TWENTY  153 

"You're  just  in  time,"  said  Ephriam  smiling. 

"I  told  you,  Jim!  Elder,  I  smelt  'em  from  the  moment  we  broke 
out  of  the  hills. "  He  lifted  the  boy  down  as  he  spoke,  and  making  a 
common  movement  with  Jim,  swung  himself  stiffly  from  the  sadle;  a 
half-grown  boy  had  appeared  from  the  direction  of  the  corrals,  and  at 
a  sign  from  Ephriam  led  away  the  mules. 

"Are  there  no  more  of  your  party  coming?"  said  the  old 
man. 

"What's  left  of  us  is  right  heah,  elder,"  answered  the  Missourian; 
then  he  saw  that  Ephriam  was  regarding  Benny  curiously.  "Oh, 
him  ?  You  allow  he  don't  belong  to  either  Jim  or  me  —  and  you're 
right,  elder,  for  he  don't." 

o        7  * 

Ephriam  turned  on  him  with  unexpected  sternness  at  this. 

" Perhaps  that  is  your  excuse  for  his  condition!"  and  he  pointed  to 
the  child,  whose  white,  scared  face  wore  a  preternatural  look  of  age 
and  suffering;  and  whose  tattered  clothes  scarcely  covered  his  pinched 
little  body;  while  his  hands  and  bare  feet  were  cruelly  torn  and 
bruised. 

"Well,  sir,  I  admit  he  ain't  much  to  brag  on,  and  his  looks  is  a 
scandal  to  this  outfit.  We  picked  him  up  only  four  days  back;  he  says 
he'd  run  off  from  the  redskins.  He'd  most  starved  to  death." 

His  own  gaunt  frame  and  hollow  cheeks,  however,  told  plainly  of 
the  hardships  all  had  endured,  and  lack  of  food  had  not  been  the  least 
of  these.  Ephriam's  face  softened. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  in  apology  for  his  momentary  suspicion,  "I  can 
see  you  have  suffered. " 

"But  you  have  got  a  fine  climate,  elder,"  broke  in  the  Missourian, 
bent  on  being  conciliatory.  "Jim  and  me  noticed  that  right  along. 
This  is  the  place  to  come  for  climate;  there's  nothing  else  heah  to  take 
your  mind  off  it;  it's  heah  thick." 

But  Ephriam's  glance  had  gone  back  to  the  child. 

"Poor  little  fellow!  Some  emigrant's  boy,  probably." 

Benny  looked  up  quickly  into  his  face  and  stole  to  his  side.  What- 
ever those  first  suspicions  of  his  concerning  Jim  and  the  Missourian 
they  had  in  no  wise  abated;  all  their  kindness  had  not  altered  his 
doubt  of  them.  The  questions  they  had  asked  him,  but  more  than 
all  their  strange  and  to  him  utterly  incomprehensible  knowledge 
of  so  much  that  had  taken  place  on  that  hill,  had  bred  conviction  in 
his  brain.  He  hated  and  feared  them. 

"Seems  to  fancy  you,  elder,"  said  the  Missourian.  "We  certainly 


I54  THE  LANDRAYS 

done  what  we  could  for  him,  which  ain't  saying  much,  for  we'd  liked 
to  do  a  heap  more. " 

A  young  girl  appeared  in  the  doorway;  the  Missourian  turned 
quickly,  hearing  her  light  step,  and  swept  off  his  battered  hat  with 
an  elaborate  flourish. 

"Ma'am,"  he  said. 

Jim,  by  a  casual  gesture,  brushed  the  flapping  brim  that  shaded  his 
eyes;  he  was  speechless. 

"If  you  will  come  in,  dinner  is  on  the  table,  father,"  said  the 
girl.  She  had  outgrown  all  curiosity  concerning  these  wayfarers  from 
the  States;  yet  she  gave  the  Missourian  a  smile,  and  to  him  that  smile 
was  an  event. 

Seated  at  the  table  the  old  man  contented  himself  with  seeing  that 
his  guests  wanted  for  nothing,  while  his  glance  constantly  shifted  first 
from  one  to  the  other  of  the  men  and  then  on  to  the  child. 

Jim  ate  in  stony  silence,  but  his  more  social  companion,  once  the 
first  rigours  of  his  hunger  were  appeased,  was  disposed  to  talk. 

"Our  finding  him,  elder,"  indicating  the  child  by  a  flourish  of  his 
knife,  "was  certainly  mighty  curious." 

"Yes?"  inquiringly. 

"It  was  four  days  back.  Jim  and  me  had  come  to  a  sandy  valley, 
it  was  like  a  good  many  other  valleys  we'd  seen,  except  that  it  had  a 
little  more  sand  and  a  little  less  of  grass  than  some  of  the  others,  but, 
perhaps,  the  most  singular  thing  about  it  was  a  flat-topped  hill  that 
stood  right  out  on  the  plain;  a  wagon  trail  led  up  to  the  top  of  that 
hill,  but  just  where  the  trail  struck  up  the  slope,  we  noticed  that  it 
was  crossed  and  crossed  again  by  another  trail  —  not  a  wagon 
trail  —  which  led  in  a  circle  about  the  hill. " 

"Indians,"  said  Ephriam;  he  was  deeply  interested. 

"  But  a  many  of  them  hosses  was  shod,  elder,  and  Jim  and  me  made 
it  our  business  to  go  to  the  top  of  that  hill;  we  found  there  had  been 
some  sort  of  a  scuffle  there;  there  was  five  dead  men  in  a  wash  on  one 
of  the  slopes,  and  we  could  see  where  three  wagons  had  been  emptied 
of  their  loads  and  burnt;  but  the  uncommonest  thing  about  it  was 
those  dead  men;  for,  when  we  come  to  examine  them,  we  found  their 
pockets  had  been  looked  through  and  pretty  well  emptied,  and  no 
letters  nor  no  nothing  left  to  show  who  they  was  or  where  they  come 
from.  The  next  day  we  found  this  boy;  he  remembered  about  the  hill 
and  about  the  fight,  said  his  pa  had  been  killed  there,  and  said  it 
was  the  Indians  done  it. " 


CHAPTER  TWENTY  155 

"What  of  that  ?  It  was  all  quite  likely,"  said  Ephriam. 

"'But  was  it  so  blame  likely?"  remonstrated  the  Missourian. 
''  Recollect  a  many  of  the  hosses  was  shod. " 

"  But  the  dead  men  ? "  asked  Ephriam. 

"Well,  what  had  been  done  to  them  was  a  plenty;  but  I  made  up 
my  mind  that  in  some  sort  it  was  a  white  man's  job, "  responded  the 
Missourian,  staring  fixedly  at  him.  The  lids  of  Raymond's  eyes 
drooped  for  an  insant. 

"A  white  man's  job  ?"  he  cried.  "White  men  ?"  he  repeated  dully; 
he  seemed  stunned  by  the  idea. 

"Which  it  might  have  been  redskins,"  said  Jim,  with  his  mouth 
full.  "Elder,  this  cooking  hits  me  hard." 

"Does  the  boy  know  who  he  is,  and  where  he  comes  from  ?"  asked 
Ephriam. 

"He  knows  little  that's  going  to  help  in  finding  his  folks;  but  I 
don't  allow  he's  got  any.  He's  a  pretty  complete  orphan. " 

"Who  are  you,  and  where  do  you  come  from,  child  ? "  asked  the  old 
man  gently,  and  he  placed  his  hand  on  Benny's  head,  his  long  fingers 
straying  among  his  sunburned  curls. 

"My  name's  Benny  Rogers."  He  spoke  with  a  shrill  little  voice. 

"And  where  do  you  come  from,  Benny  ?" 

"From  Benson,"  answered  the  child. 

Ephriam  seemed  to  consider,  then  he  looked  at  the  Missourian, 
who  shook  his  head. 

"Never  heard  of  it,"  said  he  shortly. 

"Benson  —  and  where  is  Benson  ?"  and  Ephriam  turned  again  to 
Benny. 

The  boy's  glance  instantly  became  troubled. 

"I  don't  know,  but  he  told  me  I  was  to  remember,"  he  said  at 
last. 

"Who  told  you  to  remember,  Benny  ?" 

"Mr.  Landray." 

"Where  is  he  ?" 

"The  Indians  killed  him." 

"Where?" 

"On  the  hill." 

"When  ?  How  long  ago,  I  mean  ?' 

"I  don't  know." 

"You  are  sure  they  killed  him  ?" 

"I  seen  them,"  in  a  frightened  whisper. 


156  THE  LANDRAYS 

"And  they  were  Indians  ?"  he  watched  the  child's  face  narrowly. 

"Yes  —  " 

"You  are  sure,  Benny?" 

Benny  looked  up  into  the  old  man's  face  doubtfully;  he  appeared 
to  hesitate  before  answering. 

"Yes,  I  am  sure  they  was  Indians." 

The  three  men  glanced  at  each  other. 

"And  your  father,  Benny,  what  became  of  him  f" 

"The  Indians  killed  him;  but  that  was  after  they  killed  Mr. 
Landray. " 

"That's  every  blessed  thing  we  could  get  out  of  him,  elder,"  said 
the  Missourian. 

But  here  a  quite  unexpected  interruption  occurred.  There  was  the 
sound  of  wheels  on  the  trail,  and  an  open  carriage  to  which  was  at- 
tached four  spirited  horses,  drew  up  at  the  door.  Ephriam  rose  hastily 
from  his  chair. 

"Finish  your  meal,"  he  said,  and  with  that  he  quitted  the  room. 

"He's  a  right  friendly  old  party,"  was  the  Missourian's  comment. 
"I  reckon,  Jim,  it  wouldn't  take  much  to  plant  me  heah.  I  might 
even  get  a  revelation  to  take  the  young  wife  of  some  old  Mormon 
saint." 

On  leaving  the  house,  Ephriam  found  himself  in  the  midst  of  a 
score  or  more  of  armed  and  mounted  men  who  were  riding  in  from 
the  trail;  but  without  giving  heed  to  these  he  hurried  to  the  side  of  the 
carriage,  which  held  a  solitary  occupant;  a  florid-faced,  good-looking 
man  of  perhaps  fifty,  who,  in  spite  of  a  certain  physical  coarseness, 
was  a  not  unimpressive  figure.  He  was  carefully,  even  fastidiously 
dressed,  while  his  whole  air  was  that  of  one  who  placed  a  high  opin- 
ion upon  himself. 

To  him  Ephriam  presented  himself,  but  for  the  moment  he  was 
entirely  ignored.  The  florid-faced  man  looked  on  beyond  him,  and 
through  the  open  door  of  the  ranch  house,  where  the  two  men  and  the 
child  could  be  seen,  and  inspected  them  narrowly.  One  of  the  horse- 
men seemed  equally  interested  in  Raymond's  guests;  for  he  had 
ridden  up  close  to  the  single  window  that  lighted  the  room  and  peered 
in.  Now  he  turned,  making  a  slight  gesture  which  the  occupant 
of  the  carriage  acknowledged  by  an  almost  imperceptible  move- 
ment of  the  head;  then  he  said  to  Raymond: 

"Friends  of  yours,  brother  Ephriam  ?"  and  his  short  under  lip  and 
heavy  chin  quivered  with  some  secret  emotion. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY  157 

"They  aie  emigrants,  Brother  Brigham,"  answered  Ephriam 
quickly. 

"Still  they  might  be  friends  of  yours,  Brother  Ephriam,"  re- 
turned the  other  significantly,  but  he  held  out  his  hand  frankly  and 
cordially. 

This  matter  of  the  emigrants  was  a  sore  point  with  Raymond.  He 
had  given  such  broken  spirits  as  passed  his  way  what  comfort  he 
could;  and  this,  he  knew,  was  a  thing  that  lay  heavy  against  him, 
since  the  thrifty  Saints  saw  a  special  Providence  in  the  coming  of  the 
gold-seekers  who  could  be  made  to  pay  handsomely  in  a  variety  of 
ways. 

Brother  Brigham  stepped  from  his  carriage,  and  beckoning 
Ephriam  to  follow  him,  led  the  way  out  of  hearing  of  the  others. 

"The  Lord  has  greatly  prospered  you;  not  amongst  our  people 
have  I  seen  such  fields  as  yours,"  and  Young  placed  his  hand  on  the 
older  man's  shoulder;  there  was  real  kindness  and  real  regard  in  this 
involuntary  gesture,  and  in  the  genial  warmth  of  his  companion's 
mood,  Raymond  seemed  to  expand  and  glow. 

His  memory  harked  back  to  their  recent  exodus,  when  the  church 
had  been  removed  over  a  thousand  miles  through  an  unmaped 
country  full  of  dangers  and  difficulties.  Like  Moses  of  old,  this  man 
had  led  his  people  —  men  and  women  and  children;  destitute,  poor, 
and  illy  prepared  to  meet  the  hardships  of  such  a  journey;  yet,  almost 
without  a  murmur,  they  had  abandoned  a  land  they  knew,  for  a  land 
they  did  not  know,  and  had  followed  him.  His  unyielding  deter- 
mination had  inspired  them  all;  it  alone  had  made  that  journey 
possible.  Without  him  there  could  have  been  nothing  but  ruin  and 
failure;  they  had  seen  the  graves  grow  up  by  the  trail,  marking  the 
course  they  had  come;  they  had  reached  Salt  Lake,  their  stores 
spent,  their  strength  shattered  by  the  sufferings  they  had  under- 
gone, to  find  their  land  of  promise  a  desert;  new  and  strange  and  terri- 
ble; death  by  starvation  stared  them  in  the  face;  but  Young  had  been 
equal  to  that  hour,  and  to  their  need.  He  silenced  all  their  murmurs; 
he  brought  order  out  of  impending  discord;  he  plead,  commanded, 
threatened,  prophesied;  while,  with  a  restless  and  determined  energy 
he  set  them  to  work.  They  had  strengthened,  and  their  desert  had  be 
come  a  land  of  plenty.  This  was  all  so  recent  that  Ephriam's  wonder 
of  it  never  failed  him;  surely  this  man  had  his  gifts  from  God.  Young 
spoke  abruptly. 

"Who  is  that  child  ?"  he  demanded. 


158  THE  LANDRAYS 

In  a  few  words  Ephriam  told  the  little  he  knew  of  Benny's  history. 
The  other's  cold,  grey  eyes  never  left  his  face.  Once  or  twice  he 
nodded  slightly,  as  if  Ephriam's  words  were  confirming  facts  with 
which  he  was  already  acquainted. 

"And  he  says  it  was  the  Indians!  Brother  Ephriam,  they  must  be 
looked  to." 

"But  that  seems  to  be  a  matter  where  there  may  be  some  doubt," 
said  Ephriam. 

"Ah!"  and  Young  turned  on  him  quickly. 

"The  men  who  found  him  say  that  the  horses  of  the  murderers 
were,  many  of  them  shod. " 

Young  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"The  boy  should  know  better  than  they.  I  am  surprised,  Brother 
Ephriam,  that  you  should  give  any  credit  to  their  crazy  tales."  He 
spoke  in  a  hard,  rasping  voice,  and  Raymond  was  aware,  that  for 
some  reason  which  he  did  not  understand,  it  was  distasteful  to 
Young  that  there  should  be  any  doubts  entertained  on  this  point. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  him  ?"  Young  demanded,  after  a 
moment's  silence.  The  old  man  looked  blank. 

"It  rests  with  them,  not  me.  I  suppose  they  will  try  to  find  his 
kin." 

"Yes,  but  where,  Brother  Ephriam  ?" 

"In  Benson,  wherever  that  is,"  and  Raymond  looked  puzzled. 
He  added :  "  It  will  not  be  difficult  to  learn.  I  think  —  " 

But  Young  cut  him  short. 

"Brother  Ephriam,  don't  think.  The  boy's  father  is  dead;  his 
friends  are  dead;  what  more  do  you  want  to  know  ?" 

Ephriam  hesitated;  he  seemed  about  to  speak,  but  was  silent. 
There  was  a  long  pause.  Young  looked  at  him  with  his  uncertain 
grey  eyes,  narrowed  to  a  slit.  Here  was  a  good  man,  a  man  of  scruples 
and  convictions,  and  evidently  capable  of  a  most  unsaintly  stub- 
bornness, in  whom  it  would  be  neither  wise  nor  expedient  to  fully 
confide.  At  last  he  said: 

"It  is  best  for  the  child  that  he  should  remain  here  with  you, 
Brother  Ephriam.  Those  men  can  do  nothing  for  him. " 

"Yet  they  may  not  wish  to  give  him  up,"  interposed  Raymond 
quickly.  Young  smiled. 

"They  may  have  to.  And  you,  Brother  Ephriam,  must  round  up 
your  shoulders  to  bear  this  burden. " 

"I  am  willing  enough  to  take  the  child,  if —  " 


CHAPTER  TWENTY  159 

"You  can't  make  terms  with  me.  There  are  no  ifs  to  obedience. 
Either  you  do  as  I  wish,  or  you  don't,"  said  Young,  coldly.  "This  is 
a  matter  that  has  more  to  it  than  you  can  know  now.  It  is  not  safe  for 
those  men  to  leave  here  with  the  child,  no  good  can  come  of  it  to 
them.  Do  you  understand,  Brother  Ephriam  ?  You  will  be  placing 
them  in  great  danger.  Now  are  you  willing  to  do  that  ?"  There  was  a 
sinister  significance  to  what  he  said  beyond  the  mere  meaning  of  his 
words  that  was  not  lost  on  the  old  man.  Young  continued.  "Try  them; 
tell  them  you  are  willing  that  the  child  should  remain  with  you  until 
such  time  as  he  can  be  sent  back  to  the  States.  Satisfy  them  in  what 
manner  you  choose,  but  keep  the  child;  and,  Brother  Ephriam,  ad- 
vise them  to  remain  silent  concerning  these  foolish  suspicions  of 
their's.  No  good  can  come  from  talking  of  them, "  and  Young  turned 
abruptly  from  him. 

Raymond  followed  Young  to  his  carriage;  he  meditated  rebellion; 
but,  in  spite  of  this  transient  feeling  of  hostility  to  the  other's  com- 
mands, he  knew  that  he  would  accept  the  responsibility  he  was  seek- 
ing to  fasten  upon  him.  It  would  end  in  his  keeping  the  child,  through 
fear  that  a  greater  wrong  might  come  of  it  if  he  did  not. 

These  thoughts  occupied  his  mind  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else;  and 
it  was  only  later  that  he  sought  for  an  explanation  for  Young's  in- 
terest in  the  matter,  and  this  explanation  was  destined  to  come  from 
a  most  unexpected  source. 

Moody  and  preoccupied,  he  watched  Young  and  his  bodyguard 
disappear  down  the  trail.  He  was  recalled  by  hearing  the  Missourian's 
drawling  voice  at  his  elbow. 

"Well,  elder,  the  boy  was  so  tuckered  out  he  plumb  fell  asleep  at 
table,  and  the  lady  she  toted  him  off  to  bed;  she  allowed  she  knowed 
what  he  needed." 

"Were  you  going  on  to-day  ?"  asked  Ephriam  quickly. 

"Yes,  but  the  lady's  got  the  start  of  us;  she's  got  the  kid,"  said  the 
Missourian.  It  was  plain  he  approved  of  the  lady. 

"What  shall  you  do  with  him  ?"  demanded  Ephriam. 

"Doggone  if  I  know!"  said  the  Missourian  rather  helplessly. 
"Send  him  back  to  the  States,  I  reckon,  as  soon  as  we  can." 

"Then  you'd  better  leave  him  here  with  me." 

"We  certainly  are  obliged  to  you,"  cried  the  Missourian. 

"But  look  here,"  it  was  Jim  who  spoke.  "What  about  them  five 
men  ?  If  it  was  redskins,  it  was  all  right;  but  if  it  wasn't  redskins,  who 
the  hell  was  it  ?"  He  glanced  from  one  to  the  other. 


160  THE  LANDRAYS 

"I  reckon  you  got  folks  down  in  Salt  Lake  who'll  make  it  their 
business  to  have  a  look  at  that  trail  ?"  said  the  Missourian. 

"It  is  better  that  you  say  nothing  of  your  suspicions,'*  said 
Ephriam. 

The  Missourian  turned  on  Raymond  swiftly,  and  pushing  back 
the  brim  of  his  hat  looked  him  squarely  in  the  face. 

"I'm  a  talking  man,  neighbour,"  said  he  in  his  slow  drawL  "I 
done  a  heap  of  talking  in  my  time,  and  I  allow  to  keep  right  on  giving 
people  the  advantage  of  my  opinions.  I  don't  fancy  being  advised  to 
keep  my  mouth  shut  about  this. " 

"You  misunderstand  me,"  answered  Ephriam  quietly.  "If  it  be- 
comes known  that  there  is  reason  to  doubt  the  Indians  were  solely 
responsible  for  the  killing  of  those  men,  it  will  make  talk;  and,  sup- 
posing the  guilty  parties  are  in  camp  near  the  city  —  and  many 
strangers  are  in  camp  there  —  we  may  have  to  look  far  for  them 
when  we  want  them." 

"That  sounds  a  whole  lot  better,"  said  the  Missourian.  "Well, 
we'll  tuck  along  into  town,  and  we  leave  the  boy  with  you  to  send 
back  to  the  States." 

Ephriam  led  the  way  to  the  log  stables.  He  wanted  to  see  the  last 
of  these  two  men,  before  he  repented  of  the  part  he  was  playing. 
They  seemed  simple,  kindly  fellows,  who  would  have  dealt  fairly 
by  the  boy. 

The  Missourian  wrung  his  hand  with  fervour  at  parting. 

"You  let  us  out  easy,  yet  it  ain't  really  fitting  we  should  carry 
him  on  to  California,"  he  said. 

Ephriam  stood  by  the  corral  as  they  rode  away. 

"They  are  honest  fellows,"  he  muttered  at  last,  and  then  he  real- 
ized that  he  was  staring  at  a  stretch  of  empty  road,  they  had  passed 
from  sight  down  the  trail. 

He  went  slowly  back  to  the  house.  His  daughter  met  him  at  the 
door. 

"Why,  have  they  gone  ?"  she  said  in  surprise. 

"Yes—  " 

"But  the  boy,  father?" 

"He  is  to  stay  with  us  until  I  can  send  him  to  the  States,"  he  told 
her.  She  saw  nothing  unusual  in  what  he  had  done;  since  this  kind- 
ness, for  such  it  seemed  to  her,  was  wholly  characteristic  of  him. 

"That's  just  like  you,  father;  you  are  always  taking  trouble  for 
other  people." 


CHAPTER  TWENTY  161 

"Am  I  ?  I  didn't  know."  He  smiled  at  her.  "Do  you  mind  ?"  he 
added. 

"No;  poor  little  fellow.  He  fell  asleep  at  the  table,  and  I  carried 
him  up-stairs  and  put  him  to  bed. " 

Ephriam  chuckled  softly. 

"I  guess  you're  every  bit  as  bad  as  I,"  he  said. 

He  seated  himself  on  a  bench  by  the  ranch  door,  and  fell  to  con- 
sidering the  child's  story,  seeking  to  fix  some  explanation  to  it,  that 
would  account  for  Young's  interest  in  him. 

Inside  the  house  the  girl  came  and  went.  Lost  in  thought  the  old 
man  did  not  note  the  passing  of  time,  and  it  was  only  when  his 
daughter  appeared  in  the  doorway  to  tell  him  that  supper  was  on  the 
table,  that  he  roused  from  his  long  revery,  but  with  the  problem  as 
far  as  ever  from  solution. 

"Bless  me,  it's  almost  candle-light,"  he  cried.  "Where's  the 
boy?" 

"He's  still  asleep." 

"Then  we'll  let  him  be,"  he  said.  But  after  they  had  eaten,  he  stole 
up-stairs  where  he  found  Benny  still  resting  quietly. 

"He's  sleeping  yet,  but  I'll  go  see  him  again  before  I  go  to  bed," 
he  told  his  daughter  when  he  rejoined  her  in  the  room  below.  But 
when,  two  hours  later,  he  mounted  to  Benny's  room,  he  found  him 
wide  awake  and  sitting  up  in  bed.  Seeing  Ephriam  he  smiled  in 
friendly  recognition,  and  sank  back  on  the  pillow. 

"You've  had  a  long  sleep,  Benny,"  said  the  old  man.  He  seated 
himself  on  a  low  stool  beside  the  bed,  placing  his  candle  on  the  floor 
at  his  feet.  "Are  you  hungry  ?"  he  added. 

"No,  not  a  bit,"  said  Benny. 

"Benny,  you're  sure  it  was  the  Indians  that  killed  your  father  ?" 

Benny  instantly  sat  erect  again.  • 

"Did  they  tell  you  to  ask  me  that?"  he  demanded,  with  keen 
suspicion. 

"They?  Who  do  you  mean,  child?" 

"The' men." 

"No.  They  have  gone;  you  are  to  stay  here  with  me." 

Benny  smiled,  then  his  face  fell. 

"But  they'll  come  back  for  me,"  he  said. 

"No,  you'll  probably  never  see  either  of  them  again;  they  are 
going  on  to  California." 

"And  I'm  to  stay  here  with  you  ?"  he  asked. 


l6t  THE  LANDRAYS 

"Yes—" 

"For  always  ?"  he  demanded  eagerly. 

"Yes,  as  long  as  you  like." 

"I  shall  like  that —  always,"  he  declared,  with  an  air  of  settled 
conviction. 

"Could  you  understand  what  the  Indians  said  to  you,  Benny?" 
asked  Ephriam. 

"Oh,  yes." 

"They  spoke  as  I  am  speaking?" 

Again  the  child  nodded.  Ephriam  looked  sorely  puzzled. 

"Hadn't  you  better  tell  me  the  truth,  Benny  ?" 

"But  I  am  telling  you  the  truth;  and  if  I  told  you  any  different 
they  would  kill  me. " 

"Who,  child?  The  Indians?" 

"Yes." 

"Why  were  you  afraid  of  those  two  men  ?" 

"Because  they  know,"  said  the  boy  promptly. 

"Know  what?" 

"Know  all  about  it,  where  my  pop  was  killed  and  Mr.  Lan- 
dray  and  his  brother,  they  know  all  about  it  —  " 

A  light  broke  on  Ephriam. 

"Oh,  I  see,  and  you  think  they  were  with  the  Indians  ?" 

Benny  nodded,  and  answered  a  whispered  yes  to  this. 

"  Perhaps  you  had  better  not  tell  any  one  what  you  have  told  me, 
Benny;  but  some  of  them  were  Indians  ?" 

"Some,"  said  Benny,  still  in  a  whisper. 

Ephriam  turned  away. 

"Wait!"  cried  the  child.  "I  got  something  to  give  you."  And  from 
about  his  neck  he  unfastened  a  string  to  which  was  attached  a  small 
buckskin  bay.  "He  gave  me  that,"  he  said,  extending  the  bag  to 
Ephriam. 

"Who,  Benny?  Your  father?" 

"No,  Mr.  Landray.  He  said  I  was  to  give  it  to  some  white  man 
who'd  know  what  to  do  with  it.  You  must  send  it  to  Benson." 

"And  do  you  know  where  Benson  is,  Benny?"  asked  Eph- 
riam. 

"No.  I've  forgotten.  He  told  me,  and  he  told  me  I  mustn't  forget, 
but  I  have.  It  was  where  my  pop  came  from  long  ago  when  he  was  a 
little  boy  like  me." 

Ephriam  moved  to  the  door,  and  the  child  stretched  out  his  small 


CHAPTER  TWENTY  163 

limbs  with  a  keen  sense  of  physical  comfort;  an  instant  later  he  was 
fast  asleep. 

When  Ephriam  returned  to  the  room  below,  he  placed  the  candle 
on  the  table,  drew  up  a  chair,  seated  himself  and  opened  the  bag. 
He  found  that  it  contained  nothing  but  papers  which  concerned 
themselves  wholly  with  dry  business  details.  All  he  gathered  from 
his  perusal  of  them  was  that  they  had  belonged  to  a  certain  Stephen 
Landray. 

He  saw  that  the  papers  were  of  no  actual  value,  and  feeling  con- 
vinced of  this  fact  he  was  conscious  of  an  immense  sense  of  relief; 
he  could  withhold  them,  and  no  one  would  suffer  because  of  his 
act. 

He  wondered  if  this  Landray  had  been  in  any  way  involved  in 
what  he,  in  common  with  all  Mormons,  was  wont  to  style  the  perse- 
cution of  the  church;  for  he  believed  just  as  other  Mormons  be- 
lieved, that  those  inveterate  enemies  of  the  Saints  who  had  dipped 
their  hands  in  the  blood  of  that  chosen  people,  were  doomed  to  a  swift 
and  terrible  punishment.  Such  a  theory  satisfactorily  explained 
Young's  interest  in  Benny;  for  might  it  not  have  its  origin  in  a  wise 
benevolence;  a  wish  to  lift  from  him  the  guilt  that  had  come  to  him 
as  a  birthright  ? 

This  was  so  comforting  a  thought  that  he  dwelt  long  upon  it.  Sud- 
denly, howev  ir,  he  was  startled  by  hearing  a  sound  at  the  outer  door; 
it  was  as  if  some  one  had  struck  it  sharply,  and  then  a  heavy  object 
seemed  to  fall  against  it. 

He  hid  the  papers  in  the  pocket  of  his  coat,  and  snatching  up  the 
candle,  hurried  into  the  adjoining  room.  Midway  of  it  he  paused  to 
listen.  It  might  have  been  his  fancy,  but  coming  from  beyond  the 
closed  and  barred  door  he  thought  he  could  distinguish  the  sound  of 
whispering  voices. 

He  unfastened  the  door  and  threw  it  open,  and  in  the  circle  of 
light  cast  by  his  candle  he  saw  a  tall  figure  swaying  loosely  just 
beyond  the  threshold,  while  off  in  the  distance  he  caught  the  clatter 
of  hoofs  growing  less  and  less  audible  as  if  several  mounted  men 
were  riding  rapidly  away. 

The  swaying  figure  moaned. 

"Who  is  it  ?"  demanded  Ephriam. 

The  man  attempted  to  answer  him,  but  the  words  he  would  have 
spoken  failed  him;  he  staggered  toward  the  door  and  half  fell  into 
the  room.  The  light  shone  full  in  his  face. 


164  THE  LANDRAYS 

"My  God,  Tom!"  cried  the  old  man. 

Tom  Raymond  groaned  again,  and  collapsed  into  a  chair. 

"Licker,"  he  gasped.  "Bring  me  licker —  " 

When  this  was  brought  him  and  he  had  drunk  of  it,  it  seemed  to 
give  him  strength. 

"How  are  you,  father?"  he  said,  with  a  ghastly  attempt  at  a 
smile. 

"What  has  happened  to  you,  Tom  ?"  asked  his  father. 

"I  been  shot.  Oh,  I  got  bored  pretty,"  he  groaned.  "But  I'm  a 
heap  better  than  I  was  —  where  you  going?" 

"To  call  your  sister." 

"You  needn't.  Plenty  of  time  to  see  her  in  the  morning.  Give  me 
another  pull  at  that,"  nodding  toward  the  bottle  which  Ephriam  still 
held  in  his  hand. 

"How  did  it  happen,  Tom  ?** 

"Indians,"  said  Tom,  speaking  with  difficulty.  "I  been  in  the 
army  back  at  Fort  Laramie,  but  I'm  on  the  mend  now." 

"But  how  did  you  get  here  in  this  condition?"  demanded  Eph- 
riam. 

"Friends  brought  me  —  was  almost  well,  but  coming  in  I  got  a 
fall  from  my  horse,  and  my  wound  opened;  had  to  lay  by  in  camp  on 
the  Weber  for  a  week,"  he  explained  between  gasps. 

His  father  got  him  into  his  own  room,  where  he  propped  him  up 
on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  silently  rendered  him  what  aid  he  could 
in  removing  his  clothes.  Almost  the  first  thing  the  wounded  man  did 
was  to  take  from  about  his  waist  a  heavy  belt  that  gave  out  a  metallic 
sound  as  it  slipped  from  his  weak  fingers  and  fell  to  the  floor. 

"  Pick  it  up,  father,  and  shove  it  under  my  pillow.  It's  my  savings," 
he  said,  with  a  sickly  nervous  grin. 

Once  in  bed,  fatigue  and  great  bodily  weakness  together  with  the 
generous  stimulant  he  had  taken,  caused  him  to  fall  at  once  into  a 
troubled  doze. 

Ephriam  drew  up  a  chair  and  seated  himself  at  his  son's  bedside. 
Tom  had  been  gone  for  over  a  year,  and  their  parting  had  not  been 
a  friendly  one;  but  his  present  anxiety  made  him  forget  all  this.  Tom 
seemed  very  ill  to  him,  as  he  lay  there  pale  and  haggard  in  the  light 
of  the  single  candle,  and  though  he  slept  he  was  neither  silent  nor 
motionless;  he  moved  restlessly,  with  strange  mutterings  and  chok- 
ings. 

Ephriam  could  see  the  bloody,  dirty  bandages  that  swathed  his 


CHAPTER  TWENTY  165 

right  shoulder,  where  the  collar  of  his  shirt  had  been  cut  away,  and 
he  wondered  how  serious  the  wound  was. 

Suddenly  he  started.  The  name  of  Landray  was  on  Tom's  lips. 

Then  the  wounded  man  woke  with  a  start,  and  seeing  a  look  c; 
his  father's  face  which  he  did  not  understand,  demanded: 

"What  am  I  saying,  father?" 

"Nothing,  Tom,  nothing,"  said  the  old  man  brokenly. 

"  Humph ! "  said  Tom,  and  turning  his  face  to  the  wall,  slept  ??-'- 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE 

BENSON  was  not  mistaken.  He  had  achieved  a  permanent 
place  in  Virginia  Landray's  regard.  She  had  definitely  ac- 
cepted him,  and  in  the  exact  degree  in  which  he  had  wished 
he  might  be  accepted.  She  came  to  rely  on  him  as  she  relied  on  no 
one  else;  his  words,  his  opinions,  always  on  the  one  momentous  sub- 
ject of  Stephen's  return,  had  weight  with  her.  He  took  her  such  maps 
as  he  could  find,  and  together  they  followed  the  course  of  the  gold- 
seekers.  He  dilated  upon  the  possible  obstacles  and  difficulties  they 
had  encountered,  while  making  light  of  the  dangers.  Whatever  could 
account  for  their  silence  he  dwelt  upon  and  exaggerated;  and  this  in 
spite  of  his  own  growing  conviction  that  Stephen  Landray  and  his 
companions  had  gone  to  their  death  in  that  rush  across  the  plains. 

"What  if  she  never  hears  from  him  ?"  he  asked  himself  this  over 
and  over,  not  coldly  and  without  calculation,  but  as  one  who  might 
be  brought  face  to  face  with  an  altered  condition. 

Virginia  was  young  and  beautiful;  there  would  be  no  dearth  of 
suitors  if  she  were  widowed.  Yet,  could  she  be  made  to  realize,  that 
for  her,  Stephen  Landray  and  Stephen  Landray's  love  had  ceased 
to  be,  in  all  but  memory  ?  There  was  something  horrible  and  un- 
natural in  the  thought  that  for  her,  life  might  cease  to  have  any  spe- 
cial meaning  beyond  passive  endurance.  If  she  had  been  less  beauti- 
ful; less  radiantly  youthful;  if  a  casual  if  compassionate  interest  had 
been  possible  where  she  was  concerned;  he  might  have  found  some- 
thing in  the  nature  of  compensation  in  this  conception  of  his  as  to 
what  her  devotion  would  be;  now  he  saw  it  only  as  an  unmitigated 
tragedy.  Yet  he  ended  by  glorifying  her  for  those  very  qualities  that 
made  him  despair  most. 

He  contrasted  her  with  Anna,  for  whom  he  was  feeling  nothing 
but  contempt;  a  contempt,  however,  that  was  not  unmixed  with  pity, 
for  he  realized  the  impermanency  of  her  emotions;  she  had  adjusted 
herself  to  a  cheerful  acceptance  of  the  situation:  they  would  hear 

1 66 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE  167 

from  their  adventurers  in  the  spring;  it  was  folly  to  expect  letters 
now  that  winter  had  set  in,  and  she  was  not  going  to  mope. 

Benson  was  constantly  irritated  by  her  requests  for  money;  and 
when  he  finally  refused  to  yield  to  them  out  of  simple  justice  to  Vir- 
ginia, whose  interests  he  felt  were  threatened  by  her  extravagance, 
she  quietly  worsted  him  by  gaining  Virginia's  sanction  to  her  de- 
mands. 

It  was  in  vain  that  he  remonstrated  with  the  latter.  She  listened 
patiently  enough  to  his  explanation,  but  with  an  apathy  that  in- 
cluded all  worldly  concerns. 

He  was  exasperated  and  annoyed,  since  the  situation  promised  to 
present  certain  very  tangible  difficulties.  The  mill  had  been  a  dubious 
enterprise  in  the  hands  of  Paxon,  the  new  man.  In  January  he  was  to 
have  made  his  second  payment,  but  was  unable  to  do  so,  and  turned 
back  the  mill.  The  brothers  had  directed  that  this  money  be  used  to 
take  up  their  note  to  Mr.  Stark;  and  Benson  took  up  the  note  him- 
self. 

He  showed  the  note  to  Anna  the  very  next  time  she  came  to  the 
office,  hoping  it  would  prove  an  impressive  argument  in  favour  of 
greater  economy;  but  was  much  chagrined  to  find  that  she  regarded 
the  matter  as  settled,  now  that  the  note  had  passed  out  of  Mr.  Stark's 
hands  into  his. 

''But,  my  dear  Mrs.  Landray,"  he  urged,  "suppose  anything 
should  happen;  suppose  I  should  die  suddenly;  the  note  would  be 
found  among  my  papers  —  it  might  be  very  inconvenient,  you 
know." 

"But  you  are  not  going  to  die,  Mr.  Benson,"  said  Anna  cheer- 
fully. "I  have  just  been  remarking  how  well  you  look,"  and  she  rose 
reluctantly  to  go. 

"We  never  know,"  said  the  lawyer,  rising  with  evident  alacrity. 
He  followed  her  to  the  door.  Anna  sighed  and  frowned. 

"If  only  Bush  were  here,  I  shouldn't  have  to  bother  you;  I  can 
manage  Bush,  but  I  don't  seem  able  to  do  so  very  much  with  you, 
Mr.  Benson.  I  wonder  why  it  is  ?"  she  turned  to  him  smilingly. 

"I  am  fortified  by  the  necessities  of  the  case,"  he  said. 

"You  are  a  very  determined  character;  I  don't  wonder  people 
have  such  confidence  in  you,"  she  hoped  this  flattery  might  move 
him,  but  the  lawyer  merely  bowed.  "Can't  we^mortgage  some- 
thing ?  Bush  and  Stephen  were  always  doing  that." 

"They  were  almost  too  successful,  Mrs.  Landray,"  said  Benson. 


,68  THE  LANDRAYS 

"Well,  I  shall  see  Virginia,"  and  Anna  sighed  again. 
"I  shall  see  Virginia,  too,"  muttered  the  lawyer,  after  Anna  had 
taken  her  leave  of  him.  "The  little  idiot  cares  for  nothing  but 
money!"  and  he  turned  back  into  his  office  again. 

The  house  Benson  occupied  was  on  the  north  side  of  the  public 
square.  It  was  a  two  story  frame  structure  having  an  ungenerous 
porch  across  the  front.  Everything  about  it  spoke  for  a  depressing 
utility,  a  meagre  sufficiency.  Its  walls  were  mere  husks  which  en- 
closed large  barren  rooms,  which  successfully  resisted  all  attempts 
at  adornment.  A  narrow  strip  of  turf  separated  the  house  from  the 
sidewalk,  this  was  divided  by  a  gravel  walk  which  led  from  the 
gate  to  the  front  door;  the  edges  of  this  path  were  bordered  by  white- 
washed stones  the  size  of  a  man's  two  fists. 

Since  his  father's  death,  Benson  had  used  the  large  double  par- 
lours as  offices;  a  side  door  from  the  rear  room,  over  which  his  mod- 
est sign  was  displayed,  opened  on  Water  Street;  and  by  this  door  his 
clients  came  and  went  in  steadily  increasing  numbers. 

He  had  few  pleasant  memories  of  his  boyhood  to  attach  him  to  the 
place.  His  mother  had  died  when  he  was  a  child;  and  his  father, 
who  had  his  own  ideas  about  the  rearing  of  children,  had  made  his 
up-bringing  stern  and  rigorous;  he  yet  recalled  the  latter  with  greater 
awe  than  affection;  indeed,  a  certain  fear  of  the  old  pioneer  had  fol- 
lowed him  into  manhood. 

He  still  remembered  vividly  his  first  trial;  how  glancing  up  from 
his  brief,  he  had  found  his  father's  dark  restless  eyes  fixed  upon  him; 
their  coldly  critical  glance  had  filled  him  with  something  very  like 
terror;  and  when  he  had  spoken  his  voice  faltered,  and  he  had  seen 
the  shaven  lips  curl  contemptuously;  afterward,  his  father  had  said 
with  that  frank  unsparing  candour  of  his,  "I  suppose  you  can't  help 
it  that  you  are  a  fool,  Jacob;"  then  he  had  added,  "I  always  thought 
you  took  after  your  mother's  folks;  none  of  them  ever  amounted  to 
much  that  I  heard  tell  of."  But  he  had  lived  to  reconsider  this  hasty 
judgment;  he  had  se^n  his  son  grow  steadily  in  men's  esteem. 

Old  Jacob  Benson  had  been  a  very  rich  man,  his  opportunities 
considered.  The  big  brick  warehouses  on  Front  Street  had  been  his, 
and  for  years  he  had  been  the  principal  merchant  in  the  town. 

On  coming  into  this  property,  young  Jacob  had  disposed  of  the 
store;  and  he  was  content  to  collect  his  rents  from  the  warehouses 
without  any  speculative  interest  in  the  grain  and  produce  they  housed. 
He  was  studious  and  ambitious.  He  might  have  done  many  things 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE  ,69 

with  the  fortune  that  was  his,  but  he  had  preferred  to  remain  in  Ben- 
son where  the  very  men  who  had  distrusted  his  father,  the  men 
who  had  reason  to  remember  him  as  hard  and  close,  had  every 
liking  for  the  son. 

When  Anna  took  her  leave  of  him,  the  lawyer  turned  to  his  desk. 
He  had  scarcely  settled  himself  at  his  work  again,  when  a  carriage 
drew  up  at  the  curb.  Sam  West  was  on  the  box,  and  Benson  hurried 
into  the  street  and  was  just  in  time  to  open  the  carriage  door  for 
Virginia. 

I  have  wanted  to  see  you  for  several  days,  Mr.  Benson,"  she  said. 

"Is  anything  wrong  ?  What  can  I  do  ?"  He  had  led  the  way  into 
the  office;  now  he  found  a  chair  for  her. 

"There  is  something  you  can  do,"  said  Virginia,  seating  herself. 

"What,  Mrs.  Landray?" 

She  put  out  her  gloved  hand  and  rested  it  lightly  on  his  arm. 

"It's  the  one  thing,"  she  said,  smiling  sadly.  "I  want  your  advice 
now;  for  later  I  shall  want  your  help.  It  will  soon  be  spring  again, 
the  Ohio  will  be  open,  the  ice  gone  — 

"Yes,  it  can't  be  long  now  until  you  hear,"  he  prompted  encour- 
agingly. 

"But  I  am  not  going  to  wait  to  hear,"  she  said  slowly. 

"Not  going  to  wait  to  hear  ?"  he  repeated,  vaguely  disquieted  by 
her  words  and  manner. 

"No.  I  am  going  West  to  find  Stephen." 

"Impossible,  Mrs.  Landray!"  he  burst  out;  but  she  checked  him 
by  a  gesture,  a  gesture  that  imposed  silence  while  it  banished  his 
objections  as  trivial. 

"I  have  waited.  I  can  wait  no  longer.  I  must  know."  Her  look  had 
become  one  of  settled  determination. 

"But,  Mrs.  Landray,  pray  hear  me  — 

"I  know  you  will  wish  to  dissuade  me,  so  will  Anna,  and  Jane, 
and  what  you  will  say  will  be  prompted  only  by  kindness;  but  it  will 
be  of  no  use,  Mr.  Benson.  Don't  you  understand  I  shall  never  be 
satisfied  unless  this  is  done  ?"  I  must  hear  again  —  even  if  the  mes- 
sage is  from  the  dead."  Her  voice  faltered,  but  she  went  bravely  on 
after  an  instant's  silence.  "It  is  quite  useless  to  reason  with  me;  for 
this  is  not  a  matter  that  can  be  reached  by  reason." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Benson  saw  that  while  she  was  in  her 
present  mood  there  was  nothing  he  could  say  in  opposition  to  this 
plan  of  hers  that  would  have  any  weight  with  her. 


1 7o  THE  LANDRAYS 

"I  know  Anna  and  Jane  will  think  it  foolish,  so  I  came  here  to 
win  you  to  my  purpose  first." 

"I  fear  you  can't  do  that,  Mrs.  Landray,"  and  he  smiled  doubt- 
fully. 

"It  will  be  possible  to  find  the  money,  will  it  not  ?"  And  Benson 
regretted  that  Anna's  extravagance  had  made  it  necessary  for  him 
to  exaggerate  the  difficulties  of  raising  money.  He  felt  a  sudden 
guilty  pang  that  he  had  imposed  this  further  burden  on  Virginia;  he 
hastened  to  reassure  her. 

"I  did  not  mean  in  that  way,"  he  said. 

"How,  then,  Mr.  Benson  ?  No  —  I  want  you  to  say  just  what  you 
think.  If  you  are  to  help  me  with  the  others  you  must  think  and  be- 
lieve with  me." 

"But  you  cannot  go  alone,  Mrs.  Landray." 

She  smiled  superior.  She  was  already  prepared  for  this  objection. 

"No,  of  course  not.  I  shall  join  some  party.  Other  women  have 
gone.  In  the  spring  other  women  will  be  going  again;  I  will  join  some 
such  party." 

He  seated  himself  in  a  chair  at  her  side. 

"I  know  you  will  listen  to  me,  even  if  you  had  rather  not  hear 
what  I  am  going  to  say;  but  have  you  really  considered  the  difficulties, 
the  hardships,  the  actual  dangers?"  he  asked. 

"They  are  nothing,  compared  with  what  I  am  suffering  now." 
she  said  simply.  He  hurried  on. 

"If  you  will  only  wait,  you  may  hear  from  him.  Indeed  you  must 
make  up  your  mind  to  wait  until  the  river  opens;  you  cannot  start 
until  then.  I  beg  of  you  wait  just  a  little  longer;  pray  don't  misun- 
derstand me,  I  am  not  going  to  oppose  any  project  you  may  have 
set  your  heart  upon;  that  would  be  quite  without  my  province." 

"Then  you  really  think  I  should  go  — 

"No,  Mrs.  Landray,  I  can  scarcely  conceive  —  you  will  pardon 
me  for  saying  it  —  a  more  ill-advised  undertaking;  but  I  think  you 
will  see  it  this  way,  too,  when  I  have  pointed  out  some  of  the  diffi- 
culties." 

Virginia's  face  fell. 

"I  will  do  anything  to  help  you,"  he  went  on  warmly.  "But  how 
can  your  quest  prove  conclusive  ?  You  will  be  a  member  of  some 
party  whose  whole  interest  will  be  to  cross  the  plains  as  quickly  as 
possible.  They  will  not  want  to  stop  to  prosecute  such  a  search;  and 
do  you  realize  the  magnitude  of  such  a  task  ?  You  will  have  to  cross 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE  i7j 

hundreds  of  miles  of  desert,  and  explore  a  region  that  will  some  day 
be  divided  into  seven  or  eight  States  larger  than  Ohio." 

"Men  can  be  hired  to  go  where  I  can  not,"  said  Virginia  reluc- 
tantly. Then  she  drew  herself  up  imperiously,  "I  have  thought  of  all 
you  say,  Mr.  Benson,  and  in  spite  of  obstacles  the  means  of  success 
will  not  be  lacking,  I  am  sure  of  that." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Benson  rose  and  paced  the  floor.  Vir- 
ginia watched  him  gravely. 

"It  will  be  possible  for  you  to  raise  sufficient  money  ?"  she  asked 
at  last.  "I  shall  need  a  large  sum." 

"I  beg  your  pardon  —  oh,  yes,"  when  she  had  repeated  her  ques- 
tion. Benson  paused  in  his  rapid  walk. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  how  absolutely  helpless  you  will  be,"  he  said. 
"How  dependent  on  mere  chance  kindness,  on  mercenary  inter- 
est, Mrs.  Landray  ?  I  appreciate  your  heroism  —  it  is  beautiful  — 
believe  me  I  am  not  unmindful  of  that;  but  it  is  altogether  imprac- 
tical. If  any  one  goes,  a  man  must  go.  A  man  who  will  be  superior 
to  chance  kindness  or  purchased  interest,  who  can  conduct  the 
search  himself  from  beginning  to  end,  and  who  will  not  have  to  trust 
any  one." 

"But  where  could  I  find  such  a  man  ?" 

The  lawyer's  face  flushed. 

"Would  you  trust  me,  Mrs.  Landray?" 

"You  — Mr.  Benson?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh,"  rising  and  going  quickly  to  his  side.  "You  are  not  serious, 
you  could  not  go  ;  so  many  people  need  you  here!" 

"They  can  very  well  get  along  without  me,"  he  said  shortly. 

She  searched  his  face  eagerly;  there  was  a  faint  wistful  smile  on 
her  lips.  It  was  plain  she  was  uncertain  as  to  how  she  might  take  his 
words. 

"I  am  quite  in  earnest,  Mrs.  Landray,"  he  said.  "You  could 
trust  me." 

"Oh,  yes  —  implicitly." 

A  swift  sense  of  joy  came  to  him.  He  was  about  to  do  a  very  foolish 
thing;  but  the  fact  that  it  would  be  for  her,  dignified  the  folly;  it 
became  desirable,  a  privilege. 

"But  can  you  go?"  doubtfully. 

"Why  not?"  and  he  laughed  boyishly.  "What's  to  keep  me  if  ] 
wish  to  go  ?  However,  you  must  understand  that  I  am  making  a 


1 72  THE  LANDRAYS 

promise  that  future  events  will  probably  render  void;  so  you  need 
not  thank  me,  since  I  can't  think  I'll  have  the  opportunity  to  earn 
your  thanks." 

"But  I  do  thank  you!" 

"And  you  agree  to  my  going  if  it's  necessary?"  he  questioned 
eagerly. 

She  looked  at  him  doubtingly. 

"I  wonder  when  you  speak  so  confidently  of  my  hearing  from 
Stephen  in  the  spring,  how  much  is  conviction,  how  much  kindness 
—  the  wish  to  put  from  me  till  the  last  moment  a  terrible,  hopeless 
knowledge  ?" 

His  glance  wavered  under  the  intensity  of  the  look  she  fixed  upon 
him;  he  could  not  meet  her  eyes. 

"I  know  you  mean  to  be  very  kind,  Mr.  Benson.  Your  friendship 
has  been  my  greatest  comfort,  and  now  you  will  make  this  sacri- 
fice; I  fear  I  am  very  selfish  in  allowing  it,  but  don't  you  under- 
stand ?  This  is  the  last,  the  only  thing  I  can  do;  after  this,  there  is 
nothing —  nothing —  everything  will  have  ended  for  me;  and  so,  in 
my  extremity,  I  am  willing  to  let  you  go  for  me." 

"Don't  say  that,  Mrs.  Landray!"  he  cried.  "Nothing  really  ends  ; 
in  some  form  or  another  the  thing  we  cherish  lives  on." 

"But  what  will  be  left  for  me?"  she  asked  simply;  and  he  was 
silent. 

It  was  all  so  recent,  but  later  when  time  should  have  done  its 
merciful  work,  some  peace  of  mind  would  surely  come  to  her;  he 
could  not  believe  that  this  tragedy  could  be  wholly  tragic. 

"When  I  go,"  he  said  gently,  "I  shall  want  you  to  believe  that  I 
shall  leave  nothing  undone  that  devotion  and  singleness  of  purpose 
can  suggest,  or  money  accomplish.  But  we  must  wait  a  little  longer; 
you  will  be  patient,  Mrs.  Landray?" 

"Haven't  I  been  patient  ?"  and  she  raised  her  sad  eyes  to  his.  "I 
only  wonder  how  I  have  lived  through  the  winter.  Can  you  conceive 
anything  more  awful  —  some  one  you  love,  who  is  all  in  all  to  you; 
and  for  that  person  to  take  his  living,  breathing  presence  out  of  your 
life,  and  never  to  hear,  never  to  know,  only  to  wonder;  to  go  on  from 
fear  to  fear  —  " 

"Yes,"  he  cried  generously.  "God  knows,  you  have  been  patient, 
Mrs.  Landray;  but  I  only  ask  you  to  wait  until  we  shall  have  had 
time  to  hear;  until  the  river  and  western  travel  opens.  Then  if  you 
do  not  hear  from  him,  I  will  start  at  once.  We  will  end  this  suspense. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE  173 

The  more  I  think  of  it,  the  more  it  seems  the  reasonable  thing 
to  do." 

And  now  that  he  was  determined  to  make  this  journey  for  her,  he 
glowed  with  a  generous  enthusiasm.  If  Stephen  Landray  still  lived 
he  would  bring  to  her  the  tidings,  and  would  find  it  in  his  heart  to 
rejoice  with  her. 

"  But  I  wonder  if  it  is  right  of  me  to  allow  you  to  do  this,"  and  her 
face  was  troubled.  "Perhaps  my  first  idea,  to  go  myself,  was  best." 

"No,  Mrs.  Landray,  you  will  wait  here  until  I  bring  you  word  of 
him.  Your  idea  was  beautiful  and  devoted,  but  the  very  fact  that 
you  are  a  woman  would  stand  in  your  way.  So  if  any  one  goes,  I 
must  go.  You  can  trust  to  my  devotion,  my  friendship,  where  you 
could  not  trust  another  whose  interest  you  had  merely  purchased.  I 
shall  go  single  hearted  to  find  him  ;  that  will  be  my  sole  purpose." 

He  felt  exalted  by  the  sacrifice  to  which  he  was  committed.  He 
wished  it  might  be  greater ;  then  it  would  be  the  more  worthy  of 
her. 

"  I  can  only  think  of  him  as  ill,  with  some  terrible  illness,  or  — 
or —  "  and  speech  failed  her. 

"I  know,"  he  said  softly. 

"I  wish  you  could  know  all  you  have  been  to  me;  the  comfort  you 
have  given.  I  don't  mean  now,  I  mean  since  that  night  when  you 
brought  me  the  letter."  She  rose  as  she  spoke  and  gathered  her 
wraps  about  her. 

"  It  is  nothing  —  nothing,"  he  assured  her,  as  he  walked  with  her 
to  her  carriage. 

"I  will  be  patient,"  she  said  as  she  bade  him  good-bye.  "And 
though  you  will  not  hear  of  it,  I  am  aware  of  the  sacrifice  you  will  be 
making  for  his  sake." 

"For  his  sake,"  repeated  Benson  slowly,  as  the  carriage  rolled 
away;  and  he  turned  back  in  the  twilight  that  had  fallen,  and  re- 
entered  the  house. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO 

1  WONDER  if  she  will  never  understand!"  Benson  asked  him- 
self, as  he  stood  by  the  window  and  watched  the  carnage  roll 
across  the  square  and  disappear  down  Main  Street. 

With  the  twilight,  silence  had  fallen  also;  not  that  the  town  ever 
expressed  itself  with  any  accumulated  volume  of  sound,  but  the 
score  of  teams  that  had  stood  hitched  by  the  curb  all  day  while  their 
owners  traded  or  gossiped,  were  now  seeking  the  lonely  country  roads 
that  led  toward  home. 

In  the  half  light,  Benson  saw  vaguely  outlined,  the  court-house, 
the  jail,  two  newspaper  offices,  four  dry-goods  stores,  one  grocery, 
two  saloons,  and  the  tavern;  the  mere  externals  of  middle  West  civ- 
ilization at  the  end  of  the  first  half  of  the  nineteenth  century.  Along 
the  fences,  in  the  gutters,  and  beneath  the  sheltering  eaves  of  the 
houses,  were  dirty  patches  of  melting  snow  and  ice;  mud  and  slush 
filled  the  street,  and  over  all,  between  the  changing  grey  clouds,  the 
rising  moon  sent  a  faint  uncertain  radiance. 

The  winter  was  almost  at  an  end.  If  he  went  West  it  must  be  soon. 

He  sought  to  recall  all  that  had  been  said,  and  all  that  he,  carried 
away  by  the  stress  of  his  own  emotions  —  his  pity,  and  his  love,  had 
promised  Virginia. 

"And  people  call  me  shrewd  and  capable!  Well,  one  thing,  it  will 
never  profit  me,"  he  mused  sadly.  "She  will  never  forget  him.  She's 
the  sort  of  woman  who  doesn't  forget;  I  must  bear  that  in  mind." 

The  conviction  had  come  to  him  slowly  and  reluctantly  that  Ste- 
phen Landray  and  his  brother  and  their  companions  had  perished; 
for  this  was  the  only  theory  that  could  explain  their  silence.  It  had 
been  either  the  Indians  or  the  cholera;  and  the  entire  party  must 
have  been  destroyed  or  they  would  have  heard  from  the  survivers. 
The  wealth  of  the  train,  and  the  money  Stephen  and  his  brother  had 
in  their  possession,  might  have  induced  dishonesty;  but  he  was  un- 
willing to  believe  that  either  Walsh,  or  Dunlevy,  or  Bingham,  could 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO  175 

have  been  guilty  of  the  crime  of  silence  if  anything  had  happened 
to  the  brothers;  of  Rogers  he  felt  he  knew  nothing. 

''Stephen's  dead;  of  course,  he's  dead."  Then  his  memory  re- 
verted to  her  gratitude  when  he  had  told  her  he  would  go,  and  his 
heart  leaped  again  with  a  swift  intoxicating  sense  of  joy.  Yes,  he 
would  go  for  her  gladly  —  and  perhaps  — 

The  office  door  opened,  and  the  lawyer  turning  quickly  from  the 
window  confronted  a  muffled  figure. 

"Are  you  quite  alone,  Jake  ?"  and  the  voice  was  strangely  familiar. 

"Quite,"  said  the  lawyer.  "But  who  the  dickens  are  you?" 

The  man  laughed,  and  pulling  off  his  cap,  smoothed  his  hair  and 
turned  down  the  collar  of  his  ulster;  and  Benson  had  the  uncertain 
pleasure  of  gazing  on  Captain  Gibb's  flushed  and  florid  face. 

"Well,  how  are  you,  Jake?"  said  that  worthy,  easily. 

"What  has  brought  you  back  ?"  demanded  the  lawyer  with  some 
sternness. 

"Some  damn  bad  roads,  and  hard  travel,"  said  the  captain;  he 
moved  a  step  nearer  and  half  extended  his  hand. 

"There,"  said  Benson  scornfully,  "I  don't  need  to  shake  hands 
with  you." 

"Not  if  you  feel  that  way  about  it,  you  don't;"  and  the  captain 
laughed  shortly,  but  he  added,  "Oh,  come  now,  Jake,  don't  you  be 
so  high  and  mighty." 

He  went  to  the  fireplace  and  threw  on  a  fresh  log;  the  fire  leaped 
up  and  its  light  filled  the  room.  Benson  gazed  at  him  with  some 
interest. 

"That's  better,"  said  Gibbs  cheerfully.  "We  can  see  to  talk 
now." 

'What  do  you  want,  Gibbs  ?  What  brings  you  skulking  back  ?' 
Ycu're  making  it  very  difficult  for  me  to  keep  my  temper,  Jake," 
said  the  captain  blandly.  "I  didn't  skulk.  Can't  you  guess  why  I  am 
here?" 

"No." 

"Oh,  try  again,  Jake,  you  didn't  half  try."  M 

"I  am  too  indifferent  to  try,"  retorted  Benson.  "You  deserve  - 

"Never  mind  what  I  deserve,"  interposed  the  captain  with  a 
touch  of  sullenness. 

"I  was  merely  going  to  observe  in  a  general  way,  that  a  coat  of  tar 
and  feathers  would  not  be  unappropriate;  and  Tucker  had  a  good 
many  friends  who  probably  think  the  same." 


j76  THE  LANDRAYS 

The  captain  shifted  his  position  before  the  fire,  but  his  face  turned 
«  trifle  pale. 

"I  came  here  to  see  about  my  wife's  property." 

"Your  wife  ?  I  didn't  know  you  had  a  wife." 

"Well  I  have,"  doggedly.  "It's  a  damn  funny  thing  you  can't 
understand  who  I  mean  when  I  say  my  wife." 

"Then  you  have  married  her  ?" 

Gibbs  hitched  his  chin  higher  at  this. 

"  I'm  a  man  of  honour,"  he  said  briefly. 

"Oh,  are  you!"  retorted  the  lawyer  contemptuously. 

"Are  you  prepared  to  dispute  it?"  demanded  Gibbs  truculently 

"It's  hardly  worth  disputing,"  said  Benson.  "But  you  haven't  told 
me  why  you've  come  to  see  me." 

"Haven't  I?  Well,  I  hardly  thought  that  would  be  necessary," 
said  the  captain  smilingly.  In  the  main  he  was  a  cheerful  person, 
and  his  resentments  were  for  the  most  part  short  lived.  "You  were 
Tucker's  lawyer,  weren't  you  ? " 

"Oh,  I  see!"  and  the  two  men  looked  at  each  other  in  silence  for 
a  moment;  then  Benson  spoke  again. 

"You  say  you  have  married  Mrs.  Tucker;  I'll  take  your  word 
for  that  when  you  produce  the  proofs." 

Captain  Gibbs  again  laughed  shortly,  and  took  a  large  leather 
pocket-book  from  an  inner  pocket  of  his  coat,  and  from  one  of  its 
many  compartments  drew  forth  a  folded  slip  of  paper. 

"Here  they  are,"  he  said. 

Benson  with  great  deliberation  lighted  a  taper  at  the  fire,  and  then 
the  candles  on  the  mantel;  then  he  took  the  folded  slip  of  paper  from 
Gibbs  and  leisurely  examined  it. 

"The  lady's  to  be  congratulated,"  he  observed  sarcastically. 

"Thanks,"  said  the  captain  sententiously.  "I  am  not  mistaken, 
am  I,  in  supposing  that  you  were  Mr.  Tucker's  lawyer  at  the  time 
of  his  death?" 

"No." 

"Did  he  leave  a  will?" 

"He  did." 

"As  —  as  Mrs.  Tucker's  husband,  have  you  any  objection  to  tell- 
ing me  how  he  disposed  of  his  property;  and  its  extent  ? " 

"Not  the  least  in  the  world." 

There  was  another  pause.  The  captain  was  waiting  for  Benson  to 
go  on;  but  Benson  was  silent. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO  I?7 

"To  whom  was  the  property  left  ?"  Gibbs  questioned. 

"To  your  wife."  Benson  suddenly  handed  back  the  paper  the 
captain  had  given  him.  "Here,  take  this,  I  don't  want  it,"  he 
said. 

"How  much  did  he  leave?"  inquired  Gibbs,  with  illy-concealed 
eagerness. 

"About  fifteen  thousand  dollars." 

"You  don't  say!  And  it  all  goes  to  her?" 

"Yes." 

Gibbs  moistened  his  lips  with  the  tip  of  his  tongue. 

"I  didn't  know  the  old  fellow  was  so  well  off,"  he  said  at  last. 

Benson  shrugged  his  shoulders.  The  sordidness  of  the  whole  affair 
disgusted  him. 

"You  don't  ask  any  questions  about  her  —  I  mean  Mrs.  Gibbs." 

"I  am  not  curious." 

"Oh,  come,  she's  a  relative  of  yours,  and  the  very  last  thing  she 
said  to  me  was,  'Tell  Jake  I  am  quite  happy.'" 

But  Benson  seemed  quite  untouched  by  this  mark  of  affection, 

"Naturally  you'll  take  an  interest  in  her  affairs." 

"Naturally  I'll  take  in  them  no  interest  at  all,"  said  Benson 
with  much  deliberation. 

"A  very  uncousinly  attitude  on  your  part;  and  one  to  be  deplored,** 
responded  the  captain,  smiling  and  unabashed. 

"Where  's  Mrs.  Tucker?"  asked  Benson. 

"Mrs.  Gibbs,"  corrected  the  captain  reproachfully. 

"Mrs.  Gibbs,  then  —  where  is  she  ?" 

"She  is  in  St.  Louis,"  said  the  captain.  "We  didn't  know  of 
Tucker's  death  until  a  month  ago.  Lucky  we  heard  of  it  when  we 
did,  for  if  we  hadn't,  we  should  have  been  on  our  way  to  California 
as  soon  as  the  season  opened;  this  will  change  our  plans.  There  is  no 
use  going  to  California  for  what  we  can  get  nearer  at  hand,  and  with 
much  less  trouble;  and  it  won't  come  amiss;  your  cousin  is  alto- 
gether lacking  in  Benson  thrift." 

"She  is  not  a  Benson." 

"Well,  that's  so,  too,"  admitted  the  captain. 

He  stared  into  the  fire  in  silence  for  a  moment;  a  smile  hovered 
about  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  He  was  thinking  of  this  windfall, 
old  Tucker's  money,  as  he  squinted  and  blinked  at  the  dancing 
flames.  At  last  he  roused  from  his  revery;  a  sigh  of  deep  content 
burst  from  his  swelling  chest. 


i78  THE  LANDRAYS 

"I  suppose  it  will  be  best  for  her  to  dispose  of  the  property  here  ?" 
he  said. 

The  lawyer  nodded  slightly.  Gibbs  laughed. 

'"'Oh,  come  now,  Jake,  wherever  he  is,  Tucker's  all  right;  God 
Almighty  makes  it  up  to  the  losers,  I'm  Christian  enough  to  think 
that;  so  you'd  better  thaw  out  and  take  stock  with  the  living.  I'm 
happy  clean  through!  I'd  be  an  infernal  cheat  to  pretend  otherwise." 

"What  do  you  wish  me  to  do  ?"  asked  Benson  coldly. 

"Oh,  come  nearer  to  the  fire,  or  your  words  will  freeze  to  your 
lips.  Let  out  a  tuck  in  your  morals,  man;  be  human;  be  glad  with 
me!" 

"What  do  you  wish  me  to  do  ?"  repeated  Benson  sternly. 

"Wishing  don't  seem  to  do  any  good,"  said  the  captain  plaintively. 
"In  enlightened  society,  to  be  the  father  of  a  baby,  to  be  elected  to 
a  public  office,  or  to  inherit  money —  means  whisky." 

"Not  here,"  said  Benson  shortly. 

"So  I  discover,"  said  the  captain.  "The  customs  of  refined  soci- 
ety are  in  abeyance  here.  Next  time  I  come,  I'll  bring  a  jug." 

"If  there  is  a  next  time,"  said  Benson  angrily.  "That  poor  old 
man  you  led  to  his  death  was  my  friend  —  " 

"You  needn't  rub  that  in,"  said  Gibbs,  his  cheeks  paling.  "Do  you 
suppose  I'd  have  let  him  drown  if  I'd  known  what  was  going  on  ?  I 
didn't  know  it  until  months  afterward.  Don't  speak  of  that  again, 
I  won't  have  it!" 

The  two  men  glared  at  each  other,  but  Gibbs  was  the  first  to  re- 
cover his  temper;  the  ruddy  tint  came  back  to  his  cheeks. 

"Well,  since  we  can't  drink,  suppose  we  talk  about  the  tavern  and 
distillery.  Do  you  think  you  can  find  a  purchaser  for  them?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes." 

The  captain  spread  his  coat  tails  before  the  fire  and  beamed  on 
Benson.  He  seemed  in  no  haste  to  take  his  leave. 

"I  don't  admire  your  manners,  Jake,  but  I  do  respect  your  bus- 
iness ability.  I  suppose  some  correspondence  will  be  necessary  with 
Mrs.  Gibbs  touching  these  matters  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Then,"  said  the  captain,  "I'd  better  get  back  to  St.  Louis.  I'll 
have  to  ask  you  to  look  out  for  her  interests  here.  I  don't  bear  malice. 
I  put  it  all  down  to  youth  and  inexperience.  One  of  these  days  you'll 
master  the  great  moral  truth  that  there  ain't  any  good  in  what's  fun 


CHAFFER  TWENTY-TWO  179 

for  you,  and  that  there  ain't  any  fun  in  what's  good  for  you.  I've  cut 
my  cloth  accordingly."  He  mused  in  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then 
asked  suddenly,  "What  do  you  hear  from  the  Landrays?" 

"We  hear  nothing,"  said  Benson  briefly. 

"That's  odd,"  and  the  captain  fell  silent  again. 

"Have  Mrs.  Gibbs  inform  me  of  her  wishes,"  said  Benson,  de- 
siring to  be  rid  of  his  caller. 

"Oh,  yes,  but  hold  on,  I  was  thinking  about  the  Landrays.  I 
didn't  tell  you,  did  I,  that  before  we  heard  of  Tucker's  death,  we'd 
gone  up  to  St.  Joseph;  while  there  I  fell  in  with  a  trapper  in  the 
employ  of  the  American  Fur  Company  —  a  French  Canadian  named 
LaTour  —  he  had  some  fine  beaver  skins  that  Mrs.  Gibbs  was  anx- 
ious I  should  buy  for  her;  well,  I  didn't  buy  them,  funds  were  too 
low;  but  I  did  make  one  purchase  of  him,  and  you'll  never  guess 
what  it  was!  It  was  a  sheath-knife  with  Stephen  Landray's  name 
cut  in  the  horn  handle." 

And  now  Benson  was  deeply  interested;  he  forgot  all  about 
his  righteous  contempt  for  the  captain,  in  his  eagerness  to  learn 
more. 

"Did  you  ask  the  trapper  how  he  came  by  the  knife?"  he  de- 
manded. 

"Naturally.  LaTour  said  he  had  lost  his  own  knife,  and  had 
bought  this  one  of  a  Mormon  freighter  he  met  in  the  mountains  near 
Salt  Lake." 

"  But  did  you  learn  how  the  knife  came  to  be  in  possession  of  this 
Mormon  ?"  asked  Benson. 

"Why,  no.  LaTour  asked  him  no  questions.  I  suppose  Stephen 
must  have  lost  the  knife;  it  probably  dropped  out  of  its  sheath, 
you  know." 

"I  dare  say;"  and  Benson  turned  this  over  in  his  mind;  he  felt 
that  it  was  a  matter  to  be  carefully  thought  out.  For  one  thing,  it 
meant  that  his  search  need  not  begin  east  of  Salt  Lake,  and  this  was 
a  very  important  point.  He  was  grateful  to  Gibbs;  and  his  manner 
became  almost  friendly. 

"How  long  do  you  expect  to  remain  here  ?"  he  asked. 

Gibbs  laughed  uneasily. 

"I  left  the  stage  at  Columbus  and  hired  a  man  to  drive  me  over," 
he  explained.  "I  guess  I'd  better  go  back  there  the  first  thing  in  the 
morning.  You  were  unkind  enough  to  suggest  tar  and  feathers: 
the  hint  wasn't  wasted." 


i8o  THE  LANDRAYS 

"Perhaps  I  was  a  little  severe,  Gibbs,"  said  Benson  grudgingly. 
"  But  you  know  she  is  my  cousin." 

"I'm  delighted  at  the  connection,"  and  the  captain  bowed. 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  asked  Benson. 

"I  was  going  to  one  of  the  taverns;  but  I  guess  that's  hardly  safe. 
Oh,  I'll  put  in  the  night  somehow." 

Benson  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  he  said: 

"You'd  better  have  supper  with  me,  and  spend  the  night  here. 
I'll  drive  you  back  about  day.  You'll  run  no  risk."  And  he  led  the 
way  into  the  dining-room,  while  his  guest  followed  him  with  a  hang- 
dog look  on  his  face.  This  unexpected  kindness  effected  him  more 
deeply  than  all  Benson's  previous  contempt;  and  the  man's  heart 
was  touched. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-THREE 

BENSON  began  his  preparations  for  the  journey  West  with 
some  reluctance,  and  it  was  well  into  May  before  he  felt 
he  could  even  fix  on  a  date  for  his  departure;  but  one 
morning  Sam  West  brought  him  a  brief  note  from  Virginia  that 
made  him  repent  the  weeks  he  had  wasted. 

She  feared  he  was  finding  his  promise  impossible  of  fulfillment. 
Would  he  not  forget  that  he  had  ever  made  such  a  promise,  and  tell 
her  what  steps  it  would  be  necessary  to  take  to  raise  money  suffi- 
cient for  her  to  make  the  journey. 

This  note  resulted  in  immediate  action  on  Benson's  part.  He  saw 
Judge  Bradly  and  told  him  he  expected  to  leave  for  California  the 
first  of  the  following  week;  then  he  drove  at  once  to  the  farm  to  in- 
form Virginia  of  his  decision. 

When  he  reached  the  farm  he  found  Virginia  and  Jane,  with  Jane's 
baby,  seated  under  an  old  apple-tree  that  grew  by  the  corner  of  the 
house.  He  had  tied  his  horse  in  the  lane  by  the  bars;  and  as  he  crossed 
the  yard  toward  them  Virginia  advanced  to  meet  him. 

"You  received  my  note  ?"  she  asked,  as  they  shook  hands. 

"Yes,  and  your  doubt  of  me  was  not  unmerited.  I  must  have 
seemed  horribly  dilatory  to  you;  but  my  plans  are  all  made;  I  shall 
start  this  day  week.  I  can  understand  that  to  you  I  have  seemed  to 
go  forward  very  slowly  in  this  matter." 

"Did  I  seem  very  impatient?"  asked  Virginia  humbly;  but  he 
saw  there  were  depths  of  suffering  back  of  the  light  his  words  had 
kindled  in  her  eyes;  and  his  conscience  troubled  him  not  a  little  that 
he  had  withheld  the  comfort  his  departure  on  this  mission  of  his, 
would  have  given  her. 

"Not  in  the  least,  I  am  fully  alive  to  your  anxiety;  your  patience 
has  been  greater  than  I  expected,"  he  assured  her. 

"I  fear  I  am  too  willing  to  let  you  go;  but  I  shall  never  forget, 
Mr.  Benson  —  never,  as  long  as  I  live!"  and  she  raised  her  beau- 

181 


1 82  THE  LANDRAYS 

tiful  face  to  his  with  a  look  of  gratitude  that  went  beyond  mere 
words. 

"I  am  ashamed,"  he  burst  out  generously,  "to  have  let  anything 
detain  me." 

"It  has  been  my  terrible  anxiety  that  has  made  the  days  so  slow 
in  passing.  Won't  you  come  and  see  Jane  and  the  baby  ?  —  why,  you 
have  never  seen  the  baby,  Mr.  Benson!"  with  a  poor  attempt  at 
gaiety. 

But  a  pall  was  upon  the  three.  Jane  greeted  him  with  a  pathetic 
gentleness  of  manner  that  was  meant  to  take  the  place  of  the  words 
she  dared  not  speak.  He  turned  from  her  only  to  meet  Virginia's 
laboured  cheerfulness;  and  he  was  troubled  and  ill  at  ease;  yet  he 
made  a  tolerable  success  of  maintaining  that  air  of  judicial  com- 
posure in  which  he  usually  took  refuge  when  he  came  near  to  suffer- 
ing. He  even  made  certain  tentative  and  austere  attempts  at  playful- 
ness with  the  baby;  and  then  he  drifted  into  small  talk  which  he 
felt  to  be  as  leaden  as  it  was  small.  When  at  last  he  rose  to  take  his 
leave  he  said  to  Mrs.  Walsh: 

"I  hope  I  shall  come  back  with  good  news  for  you,"  and  he  held 
out  his  hand  in  farewell.  His  words  brought  them  sharply  back  to 
the  actualities.  Jane  looked  up  quickly  from  the  sewing  which  her 
small  hands  now  clutched  despairingly. 

"Good-bye!"  and  then  a  low  cry  broke  from  her.  "You  will 
bring  them  back  ?"  and  her  tears  began  to  fall. 

"I  shall  try,"  he  said  gravely.  "But  we  must  all  be  hope- 
ful." Then  he  looked  into  Virginia's  serious  eyes,  and  caught 
the  tremor  of  her  lips;  and  was  silent.  What  right  had  he  to 
speak  his  senseless  platitudes;  he  who  was  on  the  outside  of  all 
this  sorrow  ? 

He  turned  away;  Virginia  followed  him,  and  they  moved  in  silence 
across  the  lawn.  It  was  Virginia  who  spoke  first. 

"You  will  write  me  as  each  stage  of  your  journey  is  finished; 
won't  you,  Mr.  Benson  ?  And  you  will  leave  nothing  undone  ?  You 
will  not  come  back  until  you  know  ?"  She  dwelt  upon  the  last  word 
with  almost  tragic  insistence.  Her  wistful  glance  searched  his  face. 
"Forgive  me,  I  know  I  have  no  right  to  question  it,  but  you  will 
not  rest  content  until  you  have  exhausted  every  source  from  which 
knowledge  may  be  gleaned  ?  Days  and  weeks,  even  months,  will  not 
count  with  you  ? " 

"Neither  weeks  nor  months  shall  count  with  me.  I  shall  do  all 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-THREE  183 

that  money  and  devotion  can  do.  I  shall  not  turn  back  until  I  know," 
he  said  simply. 

"I  am  sure  of  it,  Mr.  Benson;  and  I  thank  you  again  and  again!" 

"I  shall  go  direct  to  Fort  Laramie,"  he  said.  "We  know  they  have 
reached  there  in  safety;  from  there  on  I  shall  ransack  the  country 
for  news  of  them.  I  may  be  able  to  send  you  letters  after  I  leave  Fort 
Laramie;  I  will  if  I  meet  any  parties  of  returning  emigrants.  At 
any  rate  you  will  hear  from  me  when  I  reach  Salt  Lake.  If  I  find 
they  passed  through  Salt  Lake,  I  shall  push  on  to  the  coast,  and 
pursue  my  search  in  the  various  mining  camps;  at  least,  this  is 
the  plan  I  have  decided  upon;  but  when  I  get  West,  I  may  find  it 
advisable  to  take  a  somewhat  different  course;  but  you  will  under- 
stand." 

"I  shall  know  you  are  doing  all  any  one  can  do,  Mr.  Benson." 

"The  arrangement  I  have  made  with  Judge  Bradly  admits  of  an 
indefinite  absence  on  my  part.  I  shall  not  be  hurried;  I  shall  take  my 
time,  and  leave  nothing  undone  that  holds  the  shadow  of  a  hope. 
You  will  need  money  before  I  return,  and  you  are  to  go  to  the  judge 
for  that;  your  affairs  are  temporarily  in  his  hands.  There  is  just  one 
thing  I  beg  of  you;  don't  let  your  sister  take  advantage  of  your  kind- 
ness in  money  matters.  Bush  provided  for  her,  and  there  is  abso- 
lutely no  reason  why  you  should  make  sacrifices,  or  continue  those 
you  have  already  made." 

"I  will  remember." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  that.  I  hate  injustice,  I  hate  to  see 
you  the  victim  of  it." 

"Have  I  been?  It  has  all  seemed  so  unimportant;  but  perhaps  I 
have  done  wrong.  I  shall  remember  all  you  have  said  to  me." 

"I  wish  you  would,"  he  said.  "And  another  matter,  you  have  not 
told  Mrs.  Walsh  just  how  matters  stand  with  her,  about  that 
brother-in-law  of  hers  ?" 

Virginia  shook  her  head. 

"I  haven't  had  the  courage." 

Benson  gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"I  am  glad  you  haven't.  Well,  let  her  go  to  the  judge,  too,  he 
understands;  it  will  be  all  right." 

"You  are  very  generous,  Mr.  Benson." 

He  reddened  at  this. 

"Oh,  no,  it's  not  that.  What  I  may  do  is  nothing  to  what  you  are 
doing;  and  I  still  reproach  myself  with  that." 


!84  THE  LANDRAYS 

"But  you  needn't.  It  has  given  me  something  to  do,  something  to 
think  of." 

They  had  reached  the  lane.  He  vaulted  lightly  over  the  low  bars, 
and  from  the  other  side  held  out  his  hand. 

"Good-bye,  Mrs.  Landray;  I  shall  be  very  busy  until  I  go,  and 
unless  you  need  me,  it  is  doubtful  if  I  find  time  to  come  out  here 
fegain." 

"How  shall  you  go  ?"  she  asked. 

"  By  stage  to  Portsmouth." 

"And  when?" 

"This  day  week." 

There  was  a  pause;  then  Virginia  said  slowly. 

"I  shall  miss  you,  Mr.  Benson.  I  begin  to  understand  how  de- 
pendent your  kindness  has  made  me." 

"You  are  to  go  to  the  judge  for  everything,  you  know  ?"  he  said. 
"Advice,  and  all  that.  You'll  find  him  very  kind." 

"Yes  —  but  I  do  not  think  he  can  take  your  place." 

An  unexpected  joy  shone  in  Benson's  face. 

Virginia's  glance  sought  the  wooded  heights  of  Landray's  Hill. 
There  she  had  seen  the  last  of  Stephen  Landray.  Now  a  long  line  of 
freight  wagons  was  just  disappearing  about  the  turn  in  the  road 
where  months  before  she  had  caught  the  flutter  of  his  handkerchief. 
She  pressed  her  hand  to  her  heart.  What  had  she  been  thinking  of, 
why  had  she  let  him  go  ?  Even  then  she  might  have  stopped  him;  it 
was  not  too  late  —  but  she  had  let  him  go.  She  rested  her  arms  on  the 
bars,  while  uncontrollable  sobs  shook  her. 

Benson  watched  her,  white-faced  and  miserable,  and  with  a  bitter 
sense  of  the  futility  of  words.  A  puff  of  wind  showered  the  bowed 
head  with  the  petals  of  the  apple  blossoms,  which  caught  among  the 
masses  of  her  hair.  For  a  moment  Benson  looked  with  all  the  hunger 
of  his  love  in  his  eyes;  and  then  he  turned  away. 

He  had  begun  to  unfasten  his  horse  when  a  hand  was  placed  upop 
his  arm,  and  Virginia  was  smiling  on  him  through  her  tears. 

"If  I  am  not  to  see  you  again,  I  want  to  thank  you  once  more  for 
what  you  are  doing  for  us." 

"It  is  nothing,"  he  assured  her.  "Please  don't  think  of  it." 

"But  I  do,  I  must,  perhaps  I  am  very  cruel  and  heartless  to 
allow  you  to  go.  If  it  was  dangerous  for  them,  it  is  equally  dangerous 
for  you.  Suppose  something  should  happen  to  you  —  I  should  have 
this  to  reproach  myself  with  to  the  end  of  my  days." 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-THREE  !85 

"But  nothing  will  happen  to  me!"  and  he  laughed  confidently,  but 
she  regarded  him  with  questioning  gravity.  It  occurred  to  her  that  he 
was  very  young,  and  that  perhaps  she  had  taken  advantage  of  this 
quality  of  youth,  and  generous  enthusiasm.  She  felt  a  pang  of  remorse 
at  the  thought. 

"Please  don't  worry  about  me,  Mrs.  Landray,"  he  said.  "Or  I 
shall  be  quite  desperate, "  but  he  was  too  sane  to  misinterpret  her 
interest;  he  accepted  it  at  its  full  value;  his  vanity  added  nothing  to 
it.  But  the  next  moment  she  had  forgotten  him. 

"You  will  not  neglect  to  write  ?"  she  repeated  anxiously. 

He  understood  the  change,  and,  oddly  enough  was  relieved  by  it. 

"No,  Mrs.  Landray,  you  shall  hear  from  me  as  often  as  you  could 
wish." 

He  held  out  his  hand  again. 

"Good-bye." 

"Good-bye." 

She  stood  watching  him  as  he  rode  down  the  lane;  and  she  was 
still  watching  him  when  he  turned  from  the  lane  into  the  road. 

Benson  was  as  good  as  his  word.  Just  one  week  later  he  left  by 
stage  for  Columbus.  From  there  he  went  to  Portsmouth,  still  by 
stage,  where  he  took  a  fast  river  packet  for  St.  Louis.  Arrived  at  St. 
Louis  he  first  established  himself  at  a  hotel  and  then  hunted  up 
Gibbs,  whom  he  finally  located  in  a  dingy  room  over  a  grocery  store. 
A  sign  announced  it  to  be  a  "Printing  Office,"  and  when  he  had 
mounted  a  long,  and  exceedingly  steep  flight  of  stairs,  he  found  him- 
self in  a  small  room,  furnished  with  a  desk,  two  chairs,  and  a  dic- 
tionary; while  in  a  larger  room  that  opened  off  from  it  were  presses 
and  tables.  In  the  far  corner  of  the  larger  room  he  descried  an  inky 
youth  who  was  busy  setting  type  ;  to  him  Benson  made  his  presence 
known. 

"You  want  the  colonel  ?  Well,  I'll  have  him  here  in  no  time."  And 
he  stuck  his  head  out  of  the  open  window  at  his  elbow,  and  called  to 
some  one  in  the  street  below. 

"Hi,  there!  Just  step  round  to  the  licker  store  in  the  next  block  and 
ask  Colonel  Gibbs  to  step  this  way!  Gentleman  wants  to  see  him! 
It's  right  handy  for  him,"  he  explained  to  the  lawyer. 

"So  it's  Colonel  Gibbs  ?"  said  the  latter  smiling. 

"Yes,  sir,  Colonel  Gibbs." 

"Since  when  ?"  asked  Benson. 

The  youth  seemed  to  regard  this  as  an  excellent  joke. 


186  THE  LANDRAYS 

"I  reckon  he  was  born  that  way,"  he  answered  facetiously. 

Here  they  were  interrupted  by  a  vociferous  protest  from  the  street, 
and  the  youth  again  stuck  his  head  out  of  the  window. 

"You  say  he  ain't  there  ?  Did  you  look  for  him  good  ? "  he  de- 
manded being  assured  on  this  point  he  requested  the  person  in  the 
street  to  go  over  to  James's  drug  store.  "I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he 
ain't  playing  checkers  there,"  he  added. 

This  quest  proved  successful,  for  two  minutes  later  the  captain, 
wearing  an  air  of  cheerful  and  contented  prosperity,  bustled  into  the 
room. 

"Bless  me!  Is  it  you,  Jake?"  he  cried  in  astonishment,  on  seeing 
whom  his  visitor  was. 

Benson's  greeting  was  curt  but  civil. 

"Where  are  you  stopping?"  asked  Gibbs.  And  what  are  you 
doing  here,  anyhow?  Not  that  it  is  any  of  my  business,  for  it 
ain't." 

Benson  briefly  explained  the  nature  of  the  mission  that  was  taking 
him  West,  and  as  he  did  so,  the  captain  rubbed  the  tip  of  his  nose 
with  his  forefinger,  regarding  him  the  while  with  a  growing  wonder. 

"Have  a  drink?"  he  demanded,  when  the  lawyer  had  finished. 

"No." 

"Signed  the  pledge?'* 

"No." 

"Oh!  Joined  the  Infant  Bands  of  Hope  ?" 

Benson  smiled  at  this  sally,  and  the  captain  laughed. 

"So  you're  going  to  find  Stephen  Landray?"  he  said,  suddenly 
checking  his  mirth.  "Considering  the  size  of  your  contract,  you  take 
it  easy  enough,  but  I  guess  you  don't  know  what  you're  in  for." 

"Have  you  still  that  knife,  Gibbs  ?" 

"Yes,  it's  in  my  desk  here." 

"I'd  like  to  look  at  it  if  you  have  no  objection." 

"Not  the  least  in  the  world,"  and  he  produced  it  from  the  disorder 
of  a  pigeonhole.  Benson  took  it  and  examined  it. 

"I  wish  you'd  give  me  this,"  he  said. 

"Want  it  for  yourself?" 

Benson  shook  his  head. 

"Well,  present  it  to  her  as  coming  from  me,  will  you  ?" 

"Certainly,"  and  Benson  slipped  the  blade  back  into  the  sheath, 
and  the  sheath  into  his  pocket.  Gibbs  watched  him  with  a  smile  that 
constantly  widened. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-THREE  ,87 

"So  you  are  going  across  the  plains  to  look  for  Stephen  Landray  ?" 
he  observed  drily. 

"Yes." 

"Interested  in  finding  any  of  the  others  of  the  party?"  asked  the 
captain. 

"I  am  as  much  interested  in  the  others  as  I  am  in  him,"  said 
Benson  quickly. 

"Oh,  no  you  ain't,  you  don't  give  more  than  a  casual  damn 
about  the  others.  I  can  tell  you  why  you're  going  —  no  —  you  don't 
want  me  to  ?  Well,  I'll  tell  you  anyhow;  she  asked  you  to."  He  shook 
his  finger  playfully  in  Benson's  face.  "Oh,  fie  —  fie,  my  dear 
young  friend,  and  you  would  have  me  think  your  motive  purely 
disinterested. " 

Benson  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  said  rather  sternly: 

"I'm  sorry  you  find  it  difficult  to  believe  in  my  disinterestedness." 

The  captain  closed  one  eye,  he  was  in    a    most   jocular  mood. 

"Not  for  a  beautifully  sane  character  like  you,  Jake;  there's  a  lake 
down  in  Georgia  that's  six  miles  across  and  four  inches  deep,  but  you 
ain't  like  that  lake;  there's  a  good  deal  of  your  father  in  you.  It  will 
come  out  one  of  these  days,  and  when  it  does  you  will  take  the  skin 
right  off  of  people's  backs,  and  you  will  do  it  without  a  pang." 

"Thanks,"  said  Benson. 

"Don't  mention  it,"  retorted  the  captain  airily.  "It  ain't  worth 
while.  I  can't  let  you  claim  all  the  virtues,  something's  due  fallen 
humanity." 

"I  have  disposed  of  the  tavern  for  Julia."  The  lawyer  was  willing 
to  change  the  subject. 

"First  the  man  of  sentiment,  now  the  man  of  affairs. "  And  Gibbs 
beamed  upon  him.  "How  much  will  it  fetch  r" 

"Four  thousand  dollars.  I  have  brought  the  papers  for  Julia  to 

sign." 

The  captain  beamed  upon  him  afresh. 

"That's  good;  but  before  I  forget  it  I  want  to  tell  you  a  thing  or 
two  that  may  be  of  use  to  you.  You  don't  quite  like  me  yet,  but  you'll 
like  me  better  when  you  know  me  better,  and  meantime  I  am  going 
to  serve  you  in  several  ways,  all  touching  this  mission  of  yours.  I  hap- 
pen to  know  a  trader  who  is  outfitting  for  Fort  Bridget;  I  am  going 
to  introduce  you  to  him  and  you  can  cross  the  plains  with  him.  My 
advice  is  that  you  begin  your  search  at  Salt  Lake;  that  knife  was  pur- 
chased of  a  freighter  who  was  coming  out,  so  Stephen  must  have 


1 88  THE  LANDRAYS 

reached  Salt  Lake,  or  some  point  near  there.  If  he  passed  through  the 
city  he  must  have  had  dealings  with  the  Mormons;  you  may  find 
some  one  who  will  remember  him." 

"Yes,"  said  Benson,  'you  are  working  it  out  just  about  as  I 
worked  it  out.  I  am  glad  to  have  your  opinion,"  he  concluded 
frankly. 

"Now  we'll  go  to  the  house  and  see  Julia,"  said  Gibbs.  "It  isn't 
far,  and  then  I'll  take  you  to  the  tavern  where  the  trader  I  spoke  of  is 
stopping;  that's  not  far  either." 

To  Benson,  this  meeting  with  his  cousin  was  an  embarrassing 
ordeal,  for  she  received  him  with  an  effusive  cordiality  that  was 
quite  unexpected,  and  to  which  he  found  it  next  to  impossible  to  re- 
spond, but  Gibbs  came  at  once  to  his  rescue.  He  fell  to  explaining  the 
purpose  that  had  brought  him  West,  and  with  a  secret  relish  and  a 
significance  of  manner  that  made  Benson's  cheeks  redden  with 
anger.  Mrs.  Gibbs,  however,  was,  fortunately,  quite  oblivious  to  his 
meaning,  and  his  studied  reiteration  of  Stephen  Landray's  name 
conveyed  no  idea  to  her;  she  evidently  accepted  her  cousin's  mission 
at  its  face  value,  a  fact  which  only  added  to  the  captain's  amusement. 
When  Gibbs  finally  subsided,  Benson  quickly  concluded  his  business, 
and  announced  that  he  was  ready  to  go  in  search  of  the  trader. 

"Rodney,  my  dear,"  explained  the  captain. 

"Such  a  nice  man,  Jacob;  I'll  go,  too,  and  ask  him  to  take  the  best 
of  care  of  you,"  said  Mrs.  Gibbs. 

Benson  entered  a  feeble  protest;  he  was  mainly  concerned  in  wish- 
ing to  escape  from  this  rascally  pair,  but  the  captain  cut  his  protest 
short  by  saying: 

"Then  hurry  into  your  bonnet,  Julia,  for  Jake's  got  no  time  to 
spare. " 

And  presently  they  emerged  upon  the  street,  accompanied  by  Mrs. 
Gibbs,  resplendent  as  to  dress,  and  affectionately  leaning  on  the 
captain's  arm,  the  very  picture  of  wifely  devotion.  The  moral  squalor 
of  the  pair  moved  Benson  to  a  disgust  so  deep  that  he  found  it  neces- 
sary to  cloak  his  sense  of  outraged  decency  in  a  lofty  silence. 

They  found  Rodney  lodged  at  a  small  tavern  near  the  outskirts  of 
the  city.  To  him  Gibbs  explained  the  case,  and  introduced  Benson, 
and  the  black  browed  trader  professed  himself  as  delighted  at  the 
prospect  of  the  latter's  company. 

"When  do  you  start?"  asked  Benson. 

"At  daybreak  to-morrow,"  answered  Rodney. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-THREE  189 

"You'll  need  a  horse  and  arms,"  said  Gibbs.  "We'll  go  buy  them 
now,  and  you'd  better  arrange  to  sleep  here  to-night." 

"Indeed,  he'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  expostulated  Mrs.  Gibbs. 

"My  dear,  I'm  thinking  only  of  his  comfort,"  said  the  captain 
meekly.  "He'll  spend  the  evening  with  us."  And  to  this  the  helpless 
Benson  yielded  a  reluctant  assent,  but  he  saw  an  end  to  the  civilities 
they  were  thrusting  upon  him;  this  fact  alone  made  the  situation 
tolerable. 

Gibbs  was  a  real  help,  however;  he  knew  the  proprietor  of  a  stock- 
yard who  had  for  sale  just  such  a  horse  as  Benson  would  require,  and 
to  this  man's  place  of  business  the  three  now  repaired,  where  the 
captain  drove  a  sharp  bargain,  and  secured  what  afterward  proved 
to  be  a  most  serviceable  animal;  next  he  selected  a  saddle  and  a  rifle 
and  two  pistols,  and  then  he  relinquished  Benson  to  Mrs.  Gibbs, 
who  shopped  industriously  in  half  a  dozen  stores  in  his  interest,  and 
with  such  vigour  and  decision  that  at  the  end  of  two  hours  she  had 
accumulated  what  her  husband  declared  to  be  an  entirely  adequate 
outfit.  By  way  of  a  gift,  Julia  added  a  case  of  needles  and  thread 
and  the  captain,  not  to  be  outdone,  a  drinking  flask,  and  the  pur- 
chases were  bundled  up  and  a  negro  dispatched  with  them  to  the 
tavern,  there  to  await  Benson's  arrival. 

While  this  questionable  pair  had  been  exerting  themselves  in  his 
behalf,  Benson's  righteous  disapproval  of  them  had  slowly  dissipated 
itself.  There  was  something  bohemian  and  reckless  about  them,  a 
suggestion  of  easy  improvidence,  a  joyous  freedom  from  responsi- 
bility, that  was  new  to  him.  The  captain,  swaggering  much,  his  hat 
cocked  well  over  one  ear,  and  with  manfully  swelling  chest  under  a 
vivid  velvet  vest,  twirled  a  light  walking-stick  with  happy  nonchal- 
ance. He  was  assertive  and  noisy,  perhaps,  but  eminently  good- 
natured.  Benson  smiled  and  wondered.  Evidently  the  next  best  thing 
to  having  a  good  conscience  was  to  have  no  conscience  at  all.  And 
Julia,  with  her  fine  eyes  and  clear  skin,  a  handsome,  dashing  figure, 
cousined  him  with  a  confiding  affection  that  quite  disarmed  him;  he 
couldn't  approve,  but  they  seemed  happy  and  well  satisfied  with  each 
other;  and  he  allowed  them  to  bear  him  back  to  their  home  in 
triumph. 

It  was  quite  late  when  he  reached  the  tavern,  whither  the  captain 
had  insisted  on  accompanying  him,  and  as  they  shook  hands  cor- 
dially at  parting,  the  latter  said:  ^ 

"I'll  see  you  in  the  morning,  Jake,  so  I  won't  say  good-bye  now. 


I0o  THE  LANDRAYS 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  bother,  Gibbs,  it  will  be  very  early,  you 
know. " 

"I  shan't  mind  that,  Jake.  I'm  going  to  see  you  off. " 

Before  Benson  went  to  bed  that  night  he  wrote  to  Virginia,  and 
arranged  his  purchases,  stowing  them  away  in  the  canvas  packs  ht 
had  bought  for  that  purpose;  then  he  undressed  and  stretched  him- 
self out  on  the  bed. 

It  was  barely  dawn,  and  he  seemed  to  have  slept  but  an  hour  or  so, 
when  he  heard  Rodney  pounding  on  his  door,  bidding  him  be  stirring. 
He  dressed  by  candle-light,  and  hurried  downstairs,  where  he  found 
the  trader  and  his  two  Mexican  packers  already  at  breakfast. 

In  the  inn  yard  their  horses  were  being  saddled  and  the  heavy  packs 
with  which  the  trader's  mules  were  to  be  freighted  were  ready  to  be 
strapped  to  the  backs  of  the  animals. 

When  they  had  finished  their  breakfast,  Benson  followed  Rodney 
into  the  yard.  As  he  swung  himself  into  the  saddle  the  lawyer  felt  he 
was  about  to  turn  his  back  on  the  decorous,  and,  as  he  would  have 
expressed  it,  the  civilized  life  of  the  East,  and  he  gave  a  last  thought 
to  his  clients,  and  hoped  the  judge  would  do  his  best  by  them. 

But  he  had  no  sooner  left  the  yard  than  he  dismounted  hastily,  for 
there,  hurrying  up  the  street,  was  the  captain  and  Mrs.  Gibbs. 

"She  would  come,  Jake!"  panted  the  captain.  "I  told  her  you 
wouldn't  expect  it,  but  she  would  come!" 

"It  was  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Benson,  "but  I  don't  know  that 
I  deserved  it." 

"Law!"  cried  Mrs.  Gibbs  briskly.  "Do  you  think  I'd  let  you  go 
off  like  this  without  seeing  the  last  of  you  ?"  and  she  bestowed  a 
vigorous  embrace  upon  him. 

"I  fear  I'm  keeping  them  waiting,"  said  Benson.  "Good-bye, 
Gibbs  —  good-bye,  Julia  —  God  bless  you  both!  I  shall  see  you 
when  I  return.  Good-bye."  He  kissed  Mrs.  Gibbs,  shook  hands 
warmly  with  the  captain,  and  mounted  his  horse  again. 

Now  that  he  was  really  going,  and  the  parting  over  with,  Mrs. 
Gibbs  wept  copiously,  while  the  captain  endeavoured  to  console  her. 

As  he  rode  away  after  Rodney,  Benson  looked  back  more  than 
once,  and  saw  them  move  slowly  off  up  the  street,  arm  in  arm;  the 
captain  with  expanding  chest  and  twirling  cane,  and  Mrs.  Gibbs  still 
plying  her  handkerchief ;  and  this  was  the  last  he  saw  of  them  in 
many  a  long  day. 


CHAPTER   TWENTY-FOUR 

BENSON  arrived  in  Salt  Lake  City  in  August.  After  three  days 
of  unsuccessful  investigation  he  sought  an  interview  with 
Governor  Young,  at  his  office.  He  was  ushered  into  a  plain, 
businesslike  room,  where  he  saw  a  large  man  with  a  handsome,  florid 
face,  seated  before  a  desk  littered  with  papers.  He  rose  instantly  as 
the  lawyer  entered  the  room 

"Mr.  Benson  ?"  he  said  inquiringly. 

"Yes  —  this  is  Governor  Young  ?"  he  was  rather  at  a  loss  to  know 
how  to  address  this  dignitary,  whose  peculiar  functions  were  about 
evenly  divided  between  the  religious  and  civil;  this  ex-painter  and 
glazier  who,  to  some  thousands  of  his  fellows  was  a  god  in  his  own 
right,  as  well  as  prophet  and  ruler;  who  ran  mills,  and  sold  cordwood, 
or  dealt  in  groceries;  and  who,  in  the  midst  of  these  activities  found 
time  to  balk  and  insult  a  weak,  vacilating  Government  at  Washington, 
and  drive  its  representatives  out  of  the  State  he  had  founded  in  the 
desert,  when  they  chanced  to  fall  under  his  displeasure,  as  they  were 
sure  to  do  if  they  attempted  to  enforce  the  law  they  had  been  sent 
thither  to  uphold. 

Standing  there,  square  and  broad,  full  personed  and  vital,  with  his 
ruddy  cheeks  and  square  chin,  he  looked  the  man  he  was  ;  capable, 
magnetic,  determined,  and  not  too  weakly  scrupulous,  perhaps  not 
scrupulous  at  all. 

Each  devoted  a  moment  to  the  scrutiny  of  the  other. 

"Well,  sir,  how  can  I  be  of  use  to  you  ?"  asked  Young. 

"I  hardly  know  that  you  can  be,"  said  Benson.  "It's  a  chance,  and 
I  fear  a  remote  one;  still,  I  am  very  grateful  to  you  for  granting  me 
rhis  audience." 

"Have  a  seat,"  said  the  governor. 

"I  am  not  intruding  on  your  time?" 

"Not  in  the  least.  Now,  sir  ?"  When  they  had  seated  themselves. 

"I  have  come  from  Ohio,"  explained  Benson,  "and  on  what,  I 

191 


i92  THE  LANDRAYS 

begin  to  fear,  is  a  hopeless  quest. "  And  as  briefly  as  possible  he  told 
his  story.  Once  or  twice  he  fancied  that  Young  started,  or  it  might 
have  been  that  he  merely  moved  in  his  chair;  but  he  paid  him  the 
compliment  of  the  closest  attention  and  his  interest  did  not  relax 
until  Benson  had  concluded  his  narrative.  Then  he  asked  sharply: 

"What  reason  have  you  to  suppose  that  I  can  help  you  ?"  and  he 
watched  the  effect  of  this  question,  but  Benson  met  his  glance  quite 
frankly  as  he  answered: 

"None.  But  it  is  my  hope  that  you  can,  that  you  may  be  willing 
to  exert  yourself  in  my  behalf. " 

"But  how?"  demanded  Young. 

"That  I  hardly  know,"  said  Benson  reluctantly.  "Unless  you  can 
aid  me  to  find  the  freighter  from  whom  Stephen  Landray's  knife 
was  purchased." 

"A  great  many  of  our  people  are  engaged  in  transporting  supplies 
and  colonists  across  the  plains.  ' 

"Perhaps  you  will  suggest  a  more  direct  method;  I  confess  I  am 
finding  myself  rather  at  a  loss  in  the  matter. " 

"I  suppose  you  are  aware  that  your  friends  might  have  been 
stricken  with  the  cholera,  for  instance;  or  the  Indians  may  have 
killed  them;  or  they  may  have  gone  astray  on  the  plains  and  so  lost 
their  lives;  or  they  may  have  been  made  prisoners  by  the  Indians, 
may  even  now  be  prisoners  ?  Or,"  continued  Young,  "for  reasons  of 
their  own  they  may  wish  you  to  think  something  of  this  sort  has  hap- 
pened, and  at  this  moment  be  alive  and  well  in  California." 

"That,"  said  Benson,  "is  quite  impossible.  If  they  are  alive  their 
families  would  have  heard  from  them." 

"Their  families?  Men  sometimes  forget,"  and  the  governor's 
short  upper  lip  curled  unpleasantly. 

"Some  men  might,  not  these." 

"Had  they  much  money  with  them  ?" 

"Yes,  a  large  sum,"  and  he  added,  seeing  the  drift  of  Young's 
mind,  "but  only  a  small  part  of  what  they  might  have  brought.  The 
leaders  of  the  party  were  men  of  ample  means. " 

"Then  something  must  have  happened  to  them;  men  don't 
abandon  money." 

Benson  ignored  this;  but  it  occurred  to  him  that  Young  was  prob- 
ably speaking  now  in  his  worldly  capacity,  and  that  his  worldly  views 
were  very  worldly  indeed;  the  views  of  one  who  neither  trusted  nor 
respected  men. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FOUR  193 

"I  will  tell  you  what  I  will  do,"  said  Young.  "If  they  got  as  far  as 
Salt  Lake  they  must  have  had  business  dealings  with  some  of  our 
people.  I  can  have  inquiries  made,  if  you  will  furnish  me  with  a  de- 
scription of  these  men. " 

"I  have  already  been  to  the  stores  and  shops,"  said  Benson. 

"I  will  extend  the  inquiries  beyond  the  city.  Meantime  I've  a  mart 
here  who  may  be  of  use  to  you,"  said  Young  after  a  moment's 
thought. 

He  called  to  the  clerk  in  the  outer  office,  but  before  the  latter 
answered  the  summons,  he  changed  his  mind. 

"I'll  fetch  him  myself,"  he  said,  and  left  the  room. 

He  was  gone,  perhaps,  ten  minutes,  and  then  returned,  accom- 
panied by  a  heavy  set  man  of  not  especially  prepossessing  appear- 
ance, who  wore  goggles  and  blinked  through  them  at  Benson  with 
weak  eyes. 

"Mr.  Benson,  this  is  Brother  Hickman,"  said  the  governor,  by 
way  of  introduction.  "Now,  Mr.  Benson,  kindly  tell  Brother  Hick- 
man what  you  have  just  told  me." 

And  Benson  went  through  the  narrative  a  second  time. 

When  he  had  finished,  Young  turned  to  Hickman: 

"Mr.  Benson  has  already  spent  three  days  here,  but  so  far  he  has 
learned  nothing.  It  just  occurs  to  me,  Mr.  Benson,  that  our  people, 
while  they  would  not,  of  course,  really  deceive  you,  still  might  be 
reluctant  to  answer  your  questions  frankly." 

"But  why  ?"  asked  Benson  in  some  surprise. 

"They  have  learned  caution.  They  might  be  suspicious  of  you  for 
one  thing;  this  is  why  I  advise  you  to  secure  Brother  Hickman's  help. 
They  all  know  him,  and  know  he  would  not  mix  in  any  affair  that 
would  bring  them  into  trouble." 

"But  I  can't  understand  why  they  should  be  suspicious  of  me!" 
urged  Benson. 

"Then  it's  evident  you  know  nothing  of  the  Latter  Day  Saints," 
said  Young. 

"Very  little,"  admitted  Benson. 

"  We've  been  accused  of  crimes;  and  we've  been  lied  about  until  a 
stranger  from  the  States  has  to  prove  himself  before  we  accept  him 
for  what  he  seems.  You  have  come  to  me  frankly,  not  like  some  of 
these  Gentiles  who  sneak  in  here  to  make  trouble.  Why,  sir,  they  even 
quarrel  among  themselves  and  take  their  troubles  into  our  courts; 
get  justice,  and  then  go  away  and  swear  they  have  been  robbed;  or, 


i94  THE  LANDRAYS 

they  come  here  without  a  dollar,  and  live  on  our  charity,  and  then  go 
away  and  vilify  us."  He  seemed  to  be  lashing  himself  into  a  rage  at 
the  memory  of  these  wrongs,  real  or  imaginary.  "But  it  hasn't  ended 
with  these  scoundrels  that  turn  up  here  to  make  discord,  the 
wrong  has  gone  further;  the  Government  at  Washington  has  used  us 
shamefully;  it's  trampled  the  constitution  under  foot  in  its  dealings 
with  us;  it's  ridden  recklessly  over  all  law  to  persecute  and  drive  this 
people;  and  now  they  talk  about  sending  troops  here.  You  may  as 
well  tell  me  you  can  make  hell  into  a  powder-house  as  tell  me  you 
can  let  an  army  in  here  and  have  peace!"  He  rushed  on  with  his 
grievances.  "If  I  have  forty  wives,  they  do  not  know  it;  neither  did  I 
ask  any  judge  for  them.  I  live  above  law,  and  so  do  this  people.  Before 
we  left  Nauvoo,  not  less  than  two  United  States  senators  came  to 
receive  a  pledge  from  us  that  we  would  leave  the  United  States;  and 
then,  while  we  were  doing  our  best  to  quit  their  borders,  the  poor 
degraded  cusses  sent  a  requisition  for  five  hundred  men  to  go  and 
fight  their  battles  in  Mexico.  That  was  President  Polk;  and  he  will 
welter  in  hell  for  it,  with  old  Zachary  Taylor;  and  that's  where  the 
present  administration  will  soon  be  if  they  don't  repent  and  let  us 
alone!" 

He  paused,  and  Benson  made  haste  to  assure  him  of  his  entire 
sympathy.  In  spite  of  his  coarseness  the  lawyer  realized  that  Young 
spoke  as  one  who  had  suffered  oppression;  or  else  he  joined  with  an 
aggressive,  quarrelsome  disposition,  the  happy  faculty  of  believing 
always  in  the  justice  of  his  cause,  and  that  he  was  as  firmly  fixed  in 
the  right,  as  his  enemies  were  hopelessly  involved  in  the  wrong. 

A  pause  succeeded,  and  the  governor  came  back  to  the  matter  in 
hand. 

"When  I  think  of  our  wrongs,  Mr.  Benson,  I  lose  my  temper;  but 
they  are  nothing  to  you;  what  do  you  think,  Hickman  ?  What  would 
you  advise  ?" 

Hickman  turned  to  Benson  and  said: 

"We  can  look  about  here,  and  try  and  learn  if  the  party  got  this  far. " 

"Would  it  oe  possible  to  continue  my  investigation  among  the 
Indian  tribes?"  asked  Benson. 

"Oh,  it  ain't  them,"  said  Hickman.  "They'll  steal  an  ox  to  eat, 
maybe;  but  they  wouldn't  attack  a  well-armed  party  of  whites.  If  it 
was  the  Indians,  it  was  them  back  on  the  plains,  you  may  be  certain 
of  that." 

"If  it  was  the  Indians  —    "  broke  in  Young,  "it's  my  business  to 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FOUR  195 

know  it.  I'm  Indian  agent  here;  and  if  they  are  up  to  any  such  devil- 
tries I'll  sweat  repentance  out  of  them!"  and  he  looked  ugly. 

Benson  rose  from  his  chair. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said  to  Young  gratefully.  "With  your  help  I  ma/ 
be  able  to  learn  something.  At  any  rate  you  shall  hear  from  me  in  a 
day  or  so." 

A  week  elapsed,  and  Benson  sorrowfully  confessed  that  so  far  as 
his  purpose  was  concerned,  he  was  not  one  whit  wiser  than  when  he 
arrived  at  Salt  Lake  City. 

Each  day,  Mr.  Hickman,  at  the  handsome  figure  he  had  fixed  upon 
as  a  reasonable  remuneration  for  the  benefits  he  would  confer,  bore 
him  company  in  his  search;  at  first  displaying  a  sardonic  humour 
which  his  employer  wholly  failed  to  enjoy;  later  this  changed  to  a 
sneering  petulance,  for  the  lawyer's  persistency  was  of  a  kind  he  had 
scarcely  bargained  on.  Yet,  in  the  end,  Benson's  determination  pro- 
voked him  to  a  grudging  admiration  to  which  he  gave  expression 
in  characteristic  speech. 

"You  certainly  ain't  much  of  a  quitter,  sir,"  he  said.  "What's 
your  next  move  going  to  be  ?  For  I  reckon  there's  a  next  move 
coming. " 

"Several  next  moves,"  said  Benson,  slightly  nettled  by  the  man's 
manner. 

"Well,  we'll  take  'em  one  at  a  time.  What  comes  first  ?"  Hickman 
asked  grinning. 

"The  Indian  tribes  in  the  mountains,"  answered  Benson  with 
quiet  determination. 

"That  will  be  just  like  chasing  thistle  down,"  and  Hickman's 
g  in  widened. 

"Then  I'll  chase  it!"  said  Benson  shortly. 

"And  never  come  up  with  it." 

"That  remains  to  be  seen." 

"  Even  if  you  manage  to  locate  the  different  camps,  ycu  don't 
suppose,  do  you,  that  any  redskin  will  own  up  he's  had  a  hand  in 
doing  away  with  your  friends  ?  And  if  you  venture  in  among  them, 
what's  to  hinder  them  from  serving  you  some  trick  ?" 

"That's  a  risk  I  shall  have  to  take." 

"I  guess  you'll  find  it's  more  than  a  risk  —  " 

"Of  course,  if  you  prefer  not  to  accompany  me — "  began 
Benson. 

"Oh,  I  ain't  afraid.  It  would  take  right  smart  to  scare  Bill  Hick- 


196  THE  LANDRAYS 

man,  and  Brigham's  appointed  me  to  see  that  no  harm  comes  to 

you." 

"Has  he  ?  That's  very  kind  of  him. " 

"Oh,  I  reckon  he's  got  his  reasons,"  said  Hickman  coolly 

"And  you  carry  out  his  wishes  ?" 

"I  take  counsel." 

"What's  that?"  inquired  Benson. 

"It's  principally  doing  what  I'm  told.  That's  why  you  can  count 
on  me,  young  man,  no  matter  what  you  do. " 

"  I  suppose  it  will  be  necessary  to  secure  the  services  of  an  inter- 
preter and  guides;  do  you  know  where  I  can  find  a  man  who  is  ac- 
quainted among  the  various  tribes  ?" 

"I'll  have  to  think  that  over  for  a  spell." 

But  the  very  next  day  Hickman  arrived  early  at  the  hotel  and  in- 
formed Benson  that  Young  wished  to  see  him. 

They  found  him  in  his  office,  but  not  alone.  With  him  was  a  tall, 
gaunt  fellow,  whose  deeply-lined  face,  in  spite  of  its  sunburn,  showed 
an  unwholesome  pallor. 

The  president  shook  hands  cordially  with  Benson,  and  motioned 
him  to  a  chair. 

"As  the  result  of  a  curious  set  of  circumstances,  I  have  news  of 
your  friends  at  last,  Mr.  Benson;  but  you  must  prepare  to  hear  the 
worst,"  said  he,  and  he  turned  to  the  stranger.  "Come  here,  Ray- 
mond, and  tell  your  story,"  and  Raymond,  who  had  been  standing 
apart,  now  joined  the  little  group  by  the  president's  desk,  and  dropped 
into  the  chair  Young  indicated. 

"How  do  you  do,  sir."  He  addressed  himself  to  Benson,  and  his 
manner  suggested  a  kindly  sympathy  that  was  not  lost  on  the  lawyer. 

"Brother  Brigham  tells  me  you're  looking  for  Stephen  Landray 
and  his  brother  ?  I  guess  I  can  tell  you  as  much  as  any  man  alive 
about  them,  for  I  was  with  'em  —  " 

"They  are  dead,  then  ?"  said  Benson  abruptly.  He  was  very  white 
of  face,  and  his  voice  was  almost  a  whisper. 

Raymond  nodded  a  single  emphatic  inclination  of  the  head.  He 
cleared  his  throat,  and  went  on  in  his  soft,  slow  speech: 

"  I  was  with  'em  when  the  redskins  put  'em  out  of  business.  It  was 
a  snug  clean  up,  and  it  was  only  by  God  Almighty's  mercy  that  I 
fetched  myself  off"."  He  turned  back  the  collar  of  his  shirt  as  he 
spoke,  and  Benson  saw  an  ugly  scar.  Raymond  laid  his  finger  on  this. 
"You  can  see  how  near  they  came  to  fixing  me."  he  said. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FOUR  197 

"But  how  is  it  that  you  were  with  them  ?"  asked  Benson. 

"I  joined  the  party  this  side  of  Fort  Laramie.  You  see,  I  was  a 
friend  of  Basil  Landray's.  I'd  known  him  a  right  smart  while.  I  was 
coming  in  toward  the  valley  and  I  knew  a  cut  off  round  by  way  of 
the  Chugwater  that  they  was  keen  to  try.  That  was  their  mistake.  If 
they'd  stuck  to  the  emigrant  road,  this  wouldn't  have  happened. " 

"Yes?"  said  Benson. 

"They  was  mighty  agreeable  men,"  said  Raymond,  in  accents  of 
sincere  sorrow.  He  gave  Benson  a  shy,  furtive  glance.  "And  you've 
come  all  the  way  out  here  to  learn  what  happened  to  'em  ?  Well,  I 
reckon  their  friends  was  real  distressed,  not  hearing  from  'em. " 

"But  tell  me  the  particulars,"  said  Benson  breathlessly. 

"It  was  a  war  party  of  Indians  from  the  plains. " 

"What  did  I  tell  you  ?  I  knew  it  wa'n't  diggers,"  said  Hickman. 

"Diggers  ?  No,  I  guess  not.  It  was  a  regular  war  party;  and  they 
showed  up  when  we  was  within  five  days  of  the  valley  here,  but  I 
reckon  they'd  been  following  us  for  right  smart  of  a  spell,  just  wait- 
ing for  a  chance  to  take  us  when  we  wa'n't  looking  for  it.  We  stood  'em 
off  for  two  days  and  a  night;  but  by  then  they'd  pretty  well  used  us 
up.  Rogers  and  the  kid  was  dead;  Basil  was  wounded  so  he  couldn't 
use  his  rifle;  not  counting  me,  and  Steve,  and  Bush,  they  was  about 
the  best  we  had  back  of  the  wagons;  the  others  didn't  count  for  much; 
well,  the  morning  of  the  third  day  we  just  couldn't  hold  the  redskins 
off.  I  reckon  there  was  close  on  to  two  hundred  in  that  war  party. 
Two  hours  after  sun-up  there  was  just  me,  and  Steve,  and  Bush  left. 
Walsh  was  dead,  and  Bingham  was  dead,  and  Dunlevy  had  been  shot 
through  the  hips,  and  was  out  of  it,  along  with  Basil.  Our  three  guns 
couldn't  keep  'em  off,  and  they  swarmed  in  through  the  wagons. 
I  saw  'em  kill  Bush,  and  then  they  made  an  end  of  Steve,  but  I 
hadn't  as  much  as  a  scratch  on  me  yet,  and  I  threw  down  my  gun 
thinking  I'd  take  chances;  and  that's  where  I  was  smart.  At  first  some 
of  'em  wanted  to  kill  me  then  and  there;  but  others  was  in  the  notion 
to  take  me  back  with   the  tribe,  which  was  what   I'd   counted  on. 
And  this  was  what  they  decided  to  do  with  me.  Those  who'd  been  so 
keen  to  kill  me,  found  Basil,  and  Dunlevy,  and  killed  them  instead; 
and  that  comforted  'em  some.  Anyhow,  after  they  had  robbed  the 
wagons  of  what  they  wanted  and  burnt  what  they  didn't  want,  we 
started  back  into  the  hills,  I  watching  for  a  chance  to  give  'em  the 
slip.  Well,  the  chance  come.  I  got  off  with  a  good  hoss  and  a  good 
gun,  and  this  hole  in  my  neck." 


198  THE  LANDRAYS 

"And  how  long  ago  was  this  ?"  asked  Benson. 

"The  fight?  A  year  ago,  just.  I  was  with  the  Indians  for  pretty 
near  a  month,  and  I  was  almost  two  months  in  getting  home.  I  was 
fixed  so  bad  I  daren't  travel  and  this  here  wound  kept  opening  on 
me;  she  opened  three  times  and  I  had  to  lay  by  and  let  her  heal  up. 
And  when  I  did  get  home  I  was  sick  ;  I  am  only  getting  round 
now,"  he  added  with  plaintive  pity  for  himself.  "I'm  that  weak,  if 
you  was  to  shake  your  finger  at  me  I'd  be  ready  to  set  down  and  cry. 
<  I  been  back  there,  though  —  I  went  back  this  spring.  You  see  I  only 
knowed  their  names,  I'd  never  heard  any  of  'em  say  where  they'd 
come  from,  except  Rogers;  I  remembered  to  have  heard  him  say  he'd 
lived  in  Texas  where  he'd  fit  the  Mexicans,  but  I  knowed  the  others 
wa'n't  from  Texas." 

"And  what  did  you  find  ?"  asked  Benson. 

"Well,  as  far  as  I  could  see,  everything  was  as  the  Indians  had  left 
it;  but  there  was  nothing  to  tell  me  what  I  wanted  to  know. " 

He  had  told  this  monumental  lie  of  his  without  the  flicker  of  an 
eyelid;  and  with  a  touch  of  sorrow  and  gentle  melancholy  that  had 
endeared  him  to  the  lawyer.  Now  Young  joined  in  the  conversation. 

"You  see,  Mr.  Benson,  I  had  heard  of  this  fight  of  Brother  Ray- 
mond's, at  least  I'd  heard  he'd  been  attacked  by  a  party  of  Indians; 
but  yesterday  Brother  Raymond's  father,  who  is  an  elder  in  the 
church,  was  here  to  get  his  instructions,  as  I  was  sending  him  into 
the  southern  part  of  the  state  to  establish  a  settlement,  and  we  got 
to  talking  of  Brother  Thomas;  and  he  told  me  the  particulars  of  the 
fight." 

At  this  Brother  Thomas  favoured  the  governor  with  a  shy  smile. 

"Father  hated  powerful  to  go,"  he  said,  "but  he  reckoned  it  was 
the  Lord's  business  you  was  sending  him  on,  Brother  Brigham;  and 
he  knuckled  under." 

Benson  felt  stupefied  and  crushed  by  what  he  had  just  heard;  he 
thought  of  Virginia  with  infinite  pity.  He  turned  to  Young. 

"I  want  to  see  where  this  massacre  took  place,"  he  said.  "I  think 
my  clients  would  expect  this  of  me.  Now,  how  many  days  will  it 
take. " 

"Raymond  will  be  better  able  to  tell  you  that  than  I,"  said 
Young. 

'How  many  days  will  it  take,  Mr.  Raymond  ?"  asked  Benson. 

"Five  days  to  go  there,  and  you'll  have  to  come  back  to  Salt  Lake 
if  you  want  to  catch  up  with  a  party  going  East. " 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FOUR  199 

"Can  I  secure  your  services  as  a  guide?"  asked  the  lawyer. 

"Me?  No,  I  guess  not—  "  said  Raymond  quickly;  but  Young 
interrupted  him. 

"Certainly,  Raymond  will  go  with  you,  Mr  Benson,"  he  said. 

"Look  here,  Brother  Brigham,  you  never  said  I'd  have  to 
go,"  objected  Raymond.  "I  got  business  of  my  own  to  attend 
to." 

"If  Mr.  Raymond  is  unwilling —  "  began  Benson. 

"Oh,  he's  willing  enough,"  said  Young,  rather  grimly.  "You'd 
better  take  Hickman,  too." 

"He  won't  need  me  if  he's  got  Bill,"  said  Raymond  doggedly. 

"Yes  he  will.  Understand  you'll  be  paid,  well  paid.  Mr.  Benson 
expects  to  be  fair  and  liberal  with  you. " 

"I  don't  want  his  money,"  muttered  Raymond  sullenly. 

Hickman,  who  had  seemed  vastly  amused  by  something  in  the 
situation  that  was  not  patent  to  Benson,  now  slapped  Raymond  on 
the  back. 

"Oh,  come!"  he  cried.  "You  want  anybody's  money;  that's  your 
kind,  Tom  Raymond.  You  needn't  be  scared  about  the  Indians, 
they're  all  in  my  contract." 

And  in  spite  of  Raymond's  reluctance  to  take  part  in  Benson's 
quest,  he  led  his  pack-mule  when  Hickman  and  the  lawyer  rode  out 
of  the  city  at  dawn  the  next  morning. 

"I  am  sorry  that  he  seems  to  be  going  with  us  against  his  inclina- 
tion," said  Benson.  He  was  disposed  to  have  a  greater  liking  for 
Raymond  than  Hickman  had  been  able  to  inspire  him  with,  and  he 
thought  he  understood  the  former's  objection  to  being  of  the  party, 
and  liked  him  none  the  less  for  it. 

For  two  days  they  followed  the  emigrant  trail  eastward;  but  on  the 
third  they  left  it  and  struck  off  into  the  mountains.  Raymond  led 
them  unerringly,  but  his  sullen  temper  endured. 

The  fifth  day  they  made  their  longest  march,  and  it  was  dark 
when  they  went  into  camp. 

"To-morrow  I'll  show  you  what  you've  come  to  see,"  said  Ray- 
mond, as  he  drew  his  blankets  about  him,  and  stretched  himself  on 
the  ground  preparatory  to  sleep.  Yet  the  following  morning,  after 
they  had  eaten  their  breakfast,  he  still  lingered  by  the  camp-fire,  and 
it  was  only  after  much  urging  on  the  part  of  Hickman  that  he  took 
himself  off  to  bring  up  the  horses,  but  he  returned  with  only  two  of 
them. 


zoo  THE  LANDRAYS 

"Where's  your  horse  and  the  pack-mule?"  demanded  Hickman 
angrily. 

"  I  shan't  need  'em  to-day, "  answered  Raymond. 

"Why  not?" 

"This  is  the  place,  do  you  see  that  hill  off  yonder?  I  reckon 
you'll  find  what  you're  looking  for  there. " 

"We'll  go  there  then  —  at  once,"  said  Benson,  drawing  in  his 
breath  quickly. 

Raymond  fell  back  a  step  at  his  words. 

"You  and  Bill  go.  I  been  there  before.  I'm  not  going  again.  You'll 
see  where  I  buried  'em,  where  the  banks  of  a  wash  are  heaved  in. 
You  and  Bill  go  look. " 

Hickman  exploded  in  a  burst  of  laughter  at  this. 

"Well,  now, "  he  said,  and  repeated,  "  well,  now  —  why  damn  your 
soul  to  hell,  I  got  chickens  at  home  with  more  heart.  What  are  you 
afraid  of,  Tom  Raymond  ?" 

"I  ain't  saying  I'm  afraid,"  but  his  face  was  ghastly. 

"No,  by  thunder!  you  ain't  saying  it,  you  don't  need  to.  What  do 
you  expect  to  see  anyhow  ?  Ghosts  ? " 

"Shut  up,  Bill." 

The  hill  Raymond  had  indicated  was,  perhaps  two  miles  distant 
from  their  camp,  and  in  a  little  less  than  half  an  hour  they  had  reach- 
ed its  summit. 

"It's  easy  to  see  what  happened  here,"  said  Hickman,  glancing 
about  him.  He  moved  away,  circling  the  top  of  the  hill,  while  Benson 
examined  the  charred  wood  and  rusted  iron  work  that  littered  the 
ground.  He  was  thus  engaged  when  Hickman  called  to  him. 

"Come  here;  I've  found  the  spot,"  he  said,  and  the  lawyer 
hastened  to  his  side. 

He  was  standing  on  the  edge  of  a  gully  the  rains  had  cut  in  one  of 
the  slopes  of  the  hill. 

"See,"  he  said,  "there's  where  Tom  Raymond  heaved  in  the 
bank.  The  Indians  are  keen  to  kill,  but  they're  damn  slow  to  bury. 
I  wa'n't  none  too  sure  that  Raymond  had  been  back  here,  but  this 
settles  it." 

Near-by  was  a  broken  and  rusted  shovel,  and  a  pick  with  a  charred 
handle.  Benson  examined  the  shovel  narrowly,  and  on  the  iron  that 
secured  the  wooden  handle  he  found  a  name  stamped  on  the  metal; 
scraping  off  the  rust  with  the  blade  of  his  knife  he  was  able  to  decipher 
the  name, "  Bently. "  It  had  been  made  at  the  Bendy  shops  in  Benson 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FOUR  201 

Hickman  pointed  to  the  ditch. 

"Are  you  going  to  see  what  Tom's  covered  up  there  ?" 

"No,  God  forbid!"  cried  Benson. 

"We'd  better  ride  back  to  camp  then,  if  you're  ready.  I  wouldn't 
put  it  past  Tom  to  quit  us." 

"Then  suppose  you  go  and  make  sure  that  he  doesn't,"  said  Ben- 
son. "  I'm  not  ready  to  go  yet,  but  I'll  join  you  there  presently. " 

"What's  going  to  keep  you  ?"  asked  Hickman  curiously. 

"I  wish  to  mark  the  spot,"  Benson  explained,  and  for  an  hour  or 
more  after  the  Mormon  left  him  he  toiled  at  this  task,  and  by  the  end 
of  that  time  had  raised  a  rude  pyramid  of  loose  stones;  then  he 
mounted  his  horse  and  gazed  about  him  for  the  last  time. 

He  looked  at  the  bleaching  animal  bones;  at  the  circle  on  the  bare 
earth  where  the  fire  had  been;  then  his  glance  wandered  over  the 
plain;  level,  solitary,  devoid  of  life.  Miles  distant  on  either  hand  the 
barren  sands  yielded  to  the  barren  rocks,  and  the  rocks  rose  to  the 
eternal  snows.  Off  to  the  west,  in  the  full  glory  of  the  August  sun, 
was  their  camp  of  the  night  before.  It  was  hidden  by  a  strip  of  timber, 
and  out  of  this  timber  a  single  thin  ribbon  of  blue  smoke  ascended 
from  the  wasting  embers  of  their  fire. 

And  here  the  end  had  come  to  Stephen  Landray  and  his  compan- 
ions; on  this  hill,  in  this  solitude.  Here,  in  the  shelter  of  their  wagons 
they  had  fought  and  fallen.  He  almost  saw  the  savages  on  their  gal- 
loping ponies,  as  they  swept  nearer  and  nearer,  and  then  the  end  — 
swift,  brutal,  sufficient. 

Suddenly  there  came  to  him  a  quick,  shocking  sense  of  joy. 

"God  forgive  me!"  he  muttered,  aghast  at  the  feeling.  "God  for- 
give me!  I  mustn't  think  of  it — yet;  I'm  only  sorry  for  him;  only  sorry 
for  her.  I  must  keep  myself  out  of  this!" 


CHAPTER   TWENTY-FIVE 

ON  his  return  to  Salt  Lake,  Benson  wrote  to  Virginia.  This  let- 
ter he  intended  to  carry  to  St.  Louis  to  post,  where  he  expected 
to  wait  for  a  few  days;  but  his  pen  faltered,  arA  more  than 
once  he  left  his  chair  to  pace  his  dimly-lighted  room.  He  wished  to 
spare  her,  but  he  wished  her  to  know  that  Stephen  Landray  was  dead. 
Yet,  when  he  had  finished  his  letter  he  felt  the  result  to  be  pitiful 
enough,  with  its  poor  attempt  at  consolation;  and  his  face  snowed 
pale  and  haggard  in  the  faint  light  of  the  sputtering  candle  on  the 
table  before  him.  At  last,  impressed  by  the  utter  inadequacy  of  his 
commonplaces,  he  abandoned  the  idea  of  writing  Virginia  then,  and 
wrote  Judge  Bradly  instead. 

From  St.  Louis  Benson  went  to  Portsmouth  by  boat;  at  Ports- 
mouth he  stowed  himself  away  inside  the  coach  in  which  he  was  to 
complete  his  journey.  He  found  himself  seated  opposite  a  tall,  dark 
man  of  unmistakably  clerical  aspect  who  was  swathed  in  shawls 
and  travelling  blankets  bevond  any  need  that  the  weather  occasioned. 
The  other  occupant  of  tne  coach,  there  were  but  the  two  beside 
himself,  was  a  little  brown  man,  with  shrewd,  squinting  eyes,  a 
grizzled  beard,  and  closely-cropped  bullet-head.  He  wore  wide, 
bell-mouthed  trousers,  and  a  short  jacket  with  large  bone  buttons;  at 
his  neck  was  carelessly  knotted  a  flaming  kerchief;  while  perched 
upon  his  head  was  a  small  canvas  cap  of  strange  pattern. 

Benson  regarded  this  person  with  frank  wonder;  a  wonder  the  man 
himself  seemed  both  to  understand  and  enjoy,  for  his  shrewd  eyes 
twinkled  with  amusement. 

"Hullo,  young  fellow!"  he  said  chuckling.  "I  bet  you  never  seen 
anything  like  me  before;  now  did  you  ?  It  worries  you  some,  don't  it  ?" 

Benson  drew  back  with  a  muttered  apology. 

"No  offence!"  cried  the  man  good-naturedly.  "You're  welcome  to 
guess  my  breed,  but  you'll  never  hit  it.  I'm  a  sailor. " 

"So  I  imagined,"  said  Benson. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIVE  203 

"Hold  on,  not  so  fast !  "  interposed  the  man  quickly.  "That's 
only  part  of  it;  I'm  an  uncommon  kind  of  sailor  ;  I  reckon  the  only 
sailor  Styles  Cross  Roads  way  up  beyond  Marietta  ever  turned  out,  or 
ever  will.  None  of  your  lake  or  river  lunk-heads,  but  a  true  sea-faring 
man,  Ohio  born  and  Ohio  bred,  and  from  Styles  Cross  Roads,  which 
it's  a  combination  that's  hard  to  beat." 

"It  must  be,"  and  Benson  smiled  indulgently. 

"The  other  gentleman  knowed  me  the  minute  he  clapped  eyes  on 
me.  He  flirted  me  a  look  that  told  me  that  plain  as  words." 

But  the  third  occupant  of  the  coach  was  not  to  be  drawn  into  the 
conversation.  He  neither  smiled  nor  spoke,  nor  showed  that  he 
heard  what  was  said. 

"  Kick  him  in  the  shins, "  advised  the  sea-faring  man  from  Styles 
Cross  Roads  in  a  hoarse  whisper.  "Maybe  he's  hard  of  hearing. " 

Benson  shook  his  head  in  dissuasion  of  such  a  course;  however,  the 
sailor  appeared  to  abandon  the  idea  with  so  much  reluctance,  that 
the  lawyer  said  pleasantly,  wishing  to  change  the  current  of  his 
thought: 

"So  you're  from  Styles  Cross  Roads  ?" 

"Have  you  ever  heard  of  the  place  before  ?"  demanded  the  sailor. 

"I  think  I  have,"  said  Benson,  not  quite  truthfully. 

"Well,  I  guess  it  ain't  much  of  a  place,  it  warn't  when  I  left  it. 
This  is  how  it  happened,"  he  continued,  squinting  hard  at  Benson, 
"A  good  while  back,  I  guess  long  enough  before  you  was  born, 
young  man,  old  Captain  Whipple  built  a  schooner  at  Marietta, 
and  took  her  down  the  Ohio  and  Mississippi  to  New  Orleans.  I 
shipped  with  him  as  cook's  boy.  At  New  Orleans  he  picked  up  a 
cargo  of  cotton  for  England,  all  but  me  of  the  crew  going  home  by 
up  river  flat  boats.  In  England  we  got  a  cargo  for  St.  Petersburg, 
Russia;  but  when  we  reached  there,  the  port  officers  seized  the 
schooner  ;  they  said  the  papers  were  forged,  that  there  warn't  no 
such  port  as  Marietta.  The  captain  swore  his  papers  were  legal,  and 
that  Marietta  was  a  port  of  clearance.  'You're  a  most  awful  liar/ 
said  the  Russian  officer,  with  his  tongue  in  his  cheek.  'You're  a  be- 
nighted foreigner/  said  the  captain,  'or  else  you'd  have  heard  of 
Marietta,  which  it's  in  the  State  of  Ohio.'  'Where's  that?'  said  the 
Russian.  'Well,  I'm  damned,'  said  the  captain,  'never  heard  of 
Ohio?  Never  heard  of  Marietta,  Ohio?'  'Never/  said  the  Russian. 
'Extraordinary!'  says  the  captain.  'And  I  pity  you,  for  that's  where 
I  come  from.  Fetch  me  a  map  of  the  United  States  of  America,  and 


204  THE  LANDRAYS 

you  can  tell  your  grandchildren  when  you  get  to  having  them,  that 
you've  looked  on  the  finest  country  God  Almighty  ever  dared  leave 
out  of  doors  over  night!'  So  they  fetched  him  a  map  of  America,  and 
he  found  the  mouth  of  the  Mississippi,  and  coursed  up  it  with  his 
thumb  to  the  mouth  of  the  Ohio,  and  up  that  to  the  mouth  of  the 
Muskingum.  'And  there  you  have  it!'  said  the  captain.  'That's 
Marietta  —  Marietta,  Ohio,  and  my  Port  of  clearance.'"  The  sea- 
faring man  from  Styles  Cross  Roads  chuckled  softly.  "That  was  my 
first  voyage;  and  there's  thirty  years  between  my  leaving  and  my 
going  back;  but  when  I  came  ashore  at  New  Orleans  off"  my  last  voy- 
age, I  made  up  my  mind  I'd  make  a  clean  run  home." 

Thus  happily  launched  on  what  might  be  termed  a  flood  of  narra- 
tive, he  imparted  to  Benson  a  variety  of  information  touching  the 
countries  and  places  he  had  visited.  From  time  to  time  he  even 
attempted  conversation  with  the  dark  man  opposite;  but  the  latter 's 
manner  rebuked  such  advances,  and  he  ended  by  confining  hit:  re- 
marks to  the  lawyer,  whose  courtesy  was  unfailing. 

The  miles  grew  up  behind  them,  the  stage  stopping  now  and 
again  to  change  horses.  There  was  dinner  and  supper;  and  they  came 
to  a  stand  at  last  in  front  of  the  tavern  where  they  were  to  pass  the 
night. 

Drawn  up  in  the  dusty  road  before  it,  were  a  score  or  more  of 
great  freight  wagons.  From  strange  pens  came  the  lowing  of  cattle; 
the  bleat  of  sheep.  Indoors  the  bar  was  thronged  with  teamsters 
and  drovers,  Some  of  these  men  Benson  knew,  and  they  had  known 
Stephen  and  Bushrod  Landray,  and  he  stopped  to  shake  hands  with 
them,  and  to  answer  their  eager  questions. 

He  was  up  betimes  the  next  day,  and  was  soon  swinging  forward 
again  on  the  last  stage  of  his  journey.  His  two  companions  of  the  day 
before  still  kept  him  company;  the  sea-faring  man  from  Styles  Cross 
Roads,  as  communicative  as  ever,  the  other  reserved  and  silent.  But 
about  midmorning  the  latter  turned  abruptly  to  Benson  to  say: 

"I  observe,  sir,"  and  his  manner  was  precise  and  formal,  "I 
observe,  sir,  that  you  appear  to  have  come  some  distance.  If  I  mis- 
take not  I  saw  you  on  the  boat  up  from  Cincinnati  ?  May  I  be  so 
bold  as  to  ask  if  you  are  going  much  further  ? " 

"No,  fortunately;  I  am  almost  at  my  journey's  end.  Benson  is  my 
destination,"  answered  the  lawyer. 

"Oh,  indeed  ?  That  is  my  destination,  also." 

Benson  inclined  his  head.  There  was  a  long  silence.  The  coach 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIVE  205 

stopped  at  a  wayside  tavern;  and  the  sailor,  after  shaking  Benson 
warmly  by  the  hand,  left  it,  to  finish  his  journey  across  the  State  by 
other  means. 

The  dark  man  watched  the  rolling  figure  of  the  sea-faring  man, 
as  he  disappeared  through  the  tavern  door,  then  he  cleared  his 
throat. 

"I  understood  ycu  to  say  you  were  going  on  to  Benson  ?"  said  he, 
resuming  the  conversation  where  he  had  previously  abandoned  it. 

"Yes,  it  is  my  home." 

"Perhaps  you  are  acquainted  with  my  brother,  Mr.  Stillman,  the 
Baptist  clergyman?" 

"Oh,  very  well,  and  you  are  Dr.  Stillman  ?" 

As  he  spoke,  the  lawyer  glanced  curiously  at  his  companion,  for 
Dr.  Stillman  was  famous. 

"May  I  ask  your  name  ?"  said  the  doctor. 

"Benson  ;  you  probably  knew  my  father." 

The  doctor  gave  him  a  wintry  smile.  He  felt  that  his  purposes  sep- 
arated him  from  the  busy  bustling  world;  its  trafficking  laity  he  had 
found,  rarely  paused  that  it  might  understand  his  motives,  and  he 
had  long  since  ceased  to  look  for  sympathy  from  men  occupied  with 
their  own  concerns.  It  was  the  emotional  sex  which  seemed  to  under- 
stand him  best. 

"You  have  been  engaged  in  missionary  work  in  India?"  said 
Benson. 

"In  Burmah,  yes;  I  have  only  recently  returned  to  America,  and 
have  spent  the  summer  lecturing.  Now  I  am  going  to  my  brother's 
for  a  short  stay." 

Benson  was  aware  that  the  man  had  a  certain  curious  distinction. 
His  eyes,  dark  and  deep  set  under  narrow  brows,  were  piercing  and 
compelling;  they  could  burn,  too,  with  a  wonderful  light,  just  as 
his  reserve  could  drop  before  the  wealth  of  his  own  emotions,  emo- 
tions that  he  could  make  others  feel  poignantly,  while  they  yet  seemed 
oddly  foreign  to  the  man  himself. 

"Do  you  expect  to  return  to  Burmah  ?"  asked  Benson. 

"My  absence  is  only  temporary.  My  labours  are  not  finished  there 
yet;  indeed  they  are  only  just  begun."  With  an  absorbed  air,  he  con- 
tinued. "Events  made  it  seem  advisable  for  me  to  temporarily  aban- 
don my  work,  for  only  recently  I  suffered  a  most  serious  bereavement 
in  the  death  of  my  wife." 

"I  regret  exceedingly  to  hear  it,"  said  Benson  civilly. 


206  THE  LANDRAYS 

"From  the  first,  when  she  joined  me  in  the  East,  where  I  had  pre- 
ceded her,  I  doubted  if  she  could  endure  the  climate." 

Benson  ventured  the  opinion  that  such  being  the  case,  he  would 
have  abandoned  so  unpromising  a  field;  but  Dr.  Stillman  merely 
smiled  in  a  superior  way  which  the  lawyer  found  singularly  exas- 
perating. 

"Personal  considerations  should  never  be  allowed  to  clash  with 
one's  manifest  duty,"  he  said. 

In  truth,  he  had  never  spared  himself;  and  he  exacted  of  others 
quite  as  much  as  he  gave  himself. 

"Not  if  one  can  always  be  sure  of  the  manifest  duty,"  said  Benson. 

"I  was  sure." 

"You  were  fortunate,"  said  the  lawyer  drily. 

There  succeeded  a  long  pause  which  continued  for  many  a  mile. 
Dr.  Stillman  gave  himself  up  to  his  own  thoughts;  and  Benson  fixed 
his  glance  on  scenes  beyond  the  coach  window;  as  the  day  waned, 
these  became  more  and  more  familiar,  and  just  at  nightfall  they 
began  the  descent  of  Landray  Hill. 

Benson's  heart  was  beating  fast.  There,  off  to  the  right,  he  saw 
through  the  branches  of  the  bare  maples  and  chestnuts,  and  the 
dead,  dry  foliage  of  the  oaks  and  beeches,  the  light  he  was  looking 
for;  while  out  of  the  shadow  back  of  it  grew  the  huge  bulk  of  the  old 
stone  mill. 

They  clattered  noisily  through  the  covered  bridge  and  up  Main 
Street,  to  come  to  a  stop  before  the  tavern.  Dr.  Stillman  folded  his 
blankets  in  a  compact  bundle;  and  drawing  the  folds  of  the  vast  dol- 
man-like garment  which  he  wore,  closer  about  him,  stepped  from 
the  stage.  Benson  quickly  followed  him. 

The  doctor  was  welcomed  by  his  brother;  an  amiable  little  man 
who  all  but  wept  over  him  as  he  embraced  him  with  fervid  enthu- 
siasm in  the  region  of  the  thighs. 

"My  dear  John!  My  dear,  dear  John!"  the  little  man  kept  re- 
peating. "You're  home  again!  There  have  been  many  changes,  but 
it's  still  home."  Then  he  espied  Benson.  "Why,  God  bless  me,  Jacob, 
and  so  you  are  back,  too!  Shocking  news  you  bring,  my  dear  boy. 
My  heart  bleeds  for  those  poor  ladies!  But  we  are  all  in  His  hands, 
it's  His  Providence,  the  mystery  of  His  Ways;"  and  he  wrung  the 
lawyer's  hand  feelingly.  "This  is  my  brother;  you  have  heard  of 
him!" 

"We  have  met,"  said  Benson. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIVE  207 

"Oh,  yes,  to  be  sure,  to  be  sure!  Well,  good-night,  Jacob;  I'm 
glad  we  have  you  safe  back."  And  he  turned  hurriedly  away  in  pur- 
suit of  his  brother  who  was  striding  off  across  the  square,  and  in  the 
wrong  direction  from  that  in  which  he  should  have  gone. 

Benson  watched  the  two  out  of  sight;  the  tall  missionary,  and  the 
portly  little  man,  who,  holding  him  fast  by  the  arm,  puffed  and 
panted  at  his  side  in  a  vain  endeavour  to  keep  pace  with  his  long 
strides;  then  he  crossed  the  square  in  the  direction  of  his  own  home. 

Benson  saw  Virginia  the  next  day. 

There  was  a  touch  of  weariness  in  her  manner  when  she  greeted 
him,  and  the  shadow  had  deepened  in  her  eyes;  but  aside  from  this 
there  was  no  change;  her  beauty  was  as  rare  and  wonderful  as  ever. 
He  drank  it  in  by  stealth;  and  the  recollection  of  those  months  he 
had  passed  without  the  potent  spell  of  her  presence  dropped  from 
him  in  a  twinkling;  yet  because  of  this,  he  seemed  to  have  lost  ground 
in  his  absence.  He  had  lived  beyond  his  unspoken  devotion.  He  had 
toiled  and  laboured  for  her  as  one  only  toils  and  labours  for  the  one 
they  love;  and  he  recognized  that  he  had  returned  to  less  than  he 
expected.  Would  he  never  get  beyond  this  irksome  regard,  in  which 
he  felt  he  was  held,  because  of  the  affection  she  supposed  him  to 
have  had  for  Stephen  Landray  ? 

"You  received  my  letter  from  St.  Louis  ?"  he  said,  scarcely  know- 
ing where  to  begin  the  conversation. 

"Yes,  days  ago,  Mr.  Benson." 

"At  first  I  was  quite  unable  to  satisfy  myself  with  a  letter,  I 
found  it  was  easier  to  write  Judge  Bradly;  it  was  less  difficult  to 
write  you  then,  knowing  you  would  be  in  a  manner  familiar  with  all 
that  I  had  learned." 

"I  understood  perfectly." 

Her  composure  was  beyond  what  he  had  anticipated,  and  he  was 
grateful  for  the  restraint  she  put  upon  herself. 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me  all!"  she  went  on.  "All  you  did,  and  all  you 
found.  I  am  trying  to  understand  it.  Do  you  know,  that  in  spite  of 
the  conviction  I  have  had  since  last  winter  that  he  was  lost  to  me, 
I  am  still  unprepared  for  the  positive  word  you  bring.  It  is  all  new 
each  time  I  think  of  it;  and  I  think  of  nothing  else!  You  are  sure  — 
sure  ?  There  is  no  doubt  in  your  mind  ?" 

Her  glance  searched  his  face  beseechingly. 

"You  mustn't  ask  me  to  give  you  any  false  hope,"  he  said  with 
grave  kindness. 


2o8  THE  LANDRAYS 

"If  I  could  only  go  back  to  the  doubt.  Even  to  that ;  for  this  is 
so  much  worse.  This  leaves  me  nothing! " 

Very  gently  Benson  began,  starting  with  the  recovery  of  Stephen's 
knife  from  Gibbs,  and  his  trip  across  the  plains. 

She  did  not  speak  until  he  had  quite  finished;  then  she  said  in  the 
long  pause  that  followed: 

"And  you  think  —  you  think  there  is  no  hope  ?" 

"None,"  he  said  gravely. 

With  a  sudden  eloquent  gesture  she  pressed  her  hands  to  her  heart. 

"I  can't  quite  realize  it  yet,"  she  faltered;  for  how  could  he  be 
dead  when  her  love  was  all  alive,  when  it  had  undergone  no 
change  ?  She  was  weighing  each  point;  she  would  have  given  much 
to  have  believed  there  was  yet  hope;  but  since  this  could  not  be,  she 
tried  to  believe  death  had  been  swift  and  merciful  to  the  man  she 
loved;  and  the  man  who  loved  her  was  so  far  forgotten,  that  after- 
ward she  suffered  more  than  one  accusing  pang  when  she  recalled 
how  inadequate  the  expressions  of  her  gratitude  had  been,  measured 
by  the  weeks  and  months  he  had  devoted  to  her  service. 

Benson  seemed  to  divine  that  there  was  a  question  she  wished  to 
ask,  but  lacked  the  courage;  and  he  proceeded  to  answer  it  in  his 
own  direct  way. 

"When  I  returned  to  Salt  Lake  I  made  arrangements  to  have  a 
block  of  granite  cut  to  mark  the  spot.  I  suppose  it  has  been  conveyed 
to  the  mountains  before  this.  I  should  have  waited  to  see  it  in  place 
only  I  feared  the  winter  might  set  in  and  prevent  my  return  to  the 
States  until  spring;  I  dared  not  risk  that." 
You  have  seen  Anna  ?"  she  suddenly  asked. 

He  understood  ;  she  wished  to  be  alone.  He  realized  this  with  a 
quick  sense  of  disappointment.  He  rose  reluctantly  from  his  chair. 

"Really  I  might  have  gone  there  first.  Where  is  Mrs.  Walsh  ?"  he 
asked. 

"She  is  with  Anna.  We  fear  to  leave  her  alone.  It  seems  she  never 
for  one  moment  lost  hope,  or  had  any  other  belief  than  that  they 
would  come  back  safe  and  well." 

"And  are  you  alone  here  ?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  for  the  present." 

"I  should  think  you  needed  Mrs.  Walsh  rather  more  than  she 
does,"  he  commented  with  some  little  brusqueness. 

"You  must  go  to  her  at  once  when  you  return  to  town.  I  am  sure 
she  will  feel  it  if  you  do  not,"  urged  Virginia. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIVE  209 

He  drove  straight  to  Anna's.  There  in  the  darkened  parlour  he 
waited  impatiently  for  a  full  half  hour  before  she  made  her  appear- 
ance. When  she  at  last  entered  the  room,  she  greeted  him  with  such 
lack  of  warmth,  that  he  instantly  felt  that  here  he  was  held  in  posi- 
tive disfavour. 

"I  heard  last  night  that  you  were  home,  and  I  have  been  expect- 
ing you  all  the  morning,"  she  said  resentfully.  "Have  you  seen  Vir- 
ginia ? " 

"Yes." 

She  frowned  slightly. 

His  lips  parted  in  a  faintly  cynical  smile. 

"I  suppose  Virginia  told  you  that  I  had  been  utterly  prostrated 
since  the  cruel  news  came  ? " 

"Yes,"  said  Benson.  "But  I  heard  last  night  of  your  condition;  I 
drove  out  to  the  farm  first.  I  knew  Mrs.  Landray  would  be  able  to 
tell  me  if  it  would  be  advisable  for  you  to  see  me." 

She  looked  at  him  with  lurking  suspicion;  but  he  met  her  glance 
frankly,  and  she  was  half  convinced  of  his  sincerity. 

"I  am  sorry  I  kept  you  waiting,"  she  said  relenting. 

"I  was  so  distressed  to  hear  that  you  were  not  well,"  he  murmured. 
"You  must  let  me  come  again  when  you  are  stronger,"  he  urged. 
"I  don't  think  you  are  in  a  condition  now  to  hear  what  I  have 
done;  you  must  be  spared  that  until  you  are  more  yourself." 

"But  I  shall  never  be  that!"  cried  Anna,  with  a  choking  sob.  And 
at  this  touch  of  real  feeling,  he  regretted  that  he  had  stooped  to  play 
a  part. 

When  a  little  later  Benson  went  back  to  his  office  he  found  Judge 
Bradly  waiting  for  him. 

"You  have  seen  them?"  questioned  the  judge.  "My  dear  Jacob, 
it  must  have  been  a  trying  experience." 

Benson  nodded,  and  slipped  into  a  chair  before  his  desk.  The 
judge  watching  him,  shook  his  head  with  settled  melancholy  of 
manner. 

"When  I  made  their  loss  known  to  them  Bushrod's  wife  fainted, 
Jake,  keeled  over  at  the  first  word;  and  when  she  came  to,  her 
grief  was  most  heartrending.  Her  sister-in-law's  composure  was  re- 
markable; while  Mrs.  Walsh  showed  much  emotion  —  a  nice  little 
thing,  Jacob;  did  I  understand  you  to  say  quite  penniless  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Too  bad,  too  bad!  wholly  incapable,  I  should  say,  of  meeting 


210  THE  LANDRAYS 

the  situation  by  herself.  You  are  convinced  in  your  own  mind  that 
Stephen  and  Bush  and  the  others  are  dead  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Benson  shortly. 

"Shocking!  Shocking!"  said  the  judge,  holding  up  his  hands  in 
horror. 

"Have  you  seen  either  of  the  ladies  since  you  took  the  word  to 
them?"  asked  Benson. 

For  some  reason  the  judge  coloured  slightly. 

"I  think,  indeed,  I  am  quite  sure,  that  I  have  seen  Mrs.  Bush- 
rod  Landray,  being  close  by  —  you  understand,"  he  paused,  and 
looked  hard  at  Benson. 

Benson  shot  the  judge  a  covert  glance. 

"A  most  estimable  lady,"  continued  the  latter  warmly.  "I  trust 
Bush  left  her  well  provided  for  ? " 

"He  did,"  said  Benson. 

"I  am  relieved  to  hear  it.  I  had  feared  that  the  boys  were  badly 
involved.  It's  a  great  misfortune  for  a  young  and  handsome  lady  to 
be  left  as  she  has  been  left,"  concluded  the  judge,  smiling  blandly. 

"Yes,"  agreed  Benson,  "it  is;"  but  now  he  turned  on  the  judge 
with  a  quickened  interest.  The  expression  on  his  face  was  half  quiz- 
zical, half  cynical. 

"Do  you  suppose  she  will  marry  again?"  asked  the  judge  with 
studied  indifference. 

"How  should  I  know?"  demanded  Benson  sharply. 

"I  did  not  know  but  that  you  might  have  formed  some  opinion," 
ventured  the  judge  with  a  slightly  embarrassed  air. 

He  became  silent.  He  settled  his  stock,  and  took  his  tall  hat  from 
the  table  at  his  elbow,  and  Benson  fell  to  pulling  over  the  papers  on 
his  desk. 

"When  you  are  ready,  Jake,  to  look  into  what  I  have  done  in  your 
absence  —  "  remarked  the  judge,  about  to  take  his  leave. 

"In  a  day  or  two.  I  have  had  a  pretty  long  holiday,  you  know." 

"Well,  whenever  you  are  ready,"  said  the  judge,  quitting  the  room. 

Benson  turned  frowning  to  the  papers  on  his  desk. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIX 

WHEN  the  railroad  came  to  Benson,  it  reached  down  from 
a  lake  port,  a  feeble  little  tentacle  of  iron  which  joined 
another  feeble  tentacle  that  had  pushed  up  from  a  river 
point.  Theoretically,  its  coming  was  in  response  to  the  town's  need, 
because  of  its  mills  and  warehouses,  and  the  bounty  of  its  waving 
fields  of  grain;  so  Colonel  Sharp  declared  in  an  editorial  which  con- 
tained much  Latin,  some  very  superior  English,  and  numerous  allu- 
sions to  destiny;  and  the  town,  lacking  not  in  local  pride,  and  having 
had  dreams  of  civic  greatness,  was  prepared  to  believe  that  its  import- 
ance as  a  commercial  centre  was  the  magnet  that  drewtheroadthither. 

But  Jacob  Benson  and  some  others  knew  that  the  real  reason  the 
railroad  came,  was  that  they  had  exchanged  certain  dollars  for  un- 
certain stock;  that  but  for  this,  the  line  would  have  sought  the  town 
of  Carthage,  distant  some  twenty  miles  to  the  east,  where  the  air  was 
heavy  with  the  reek  of  soft-coal  smoke,  the  chimneys  of  the  blast 
furnaces  blazed  unceasingly  in  the  night,  and  a  small  but  active  pop- 
ulation worked,  drank,  and  fought,  beyond  what  was  habitual  to  any 
other  population  of  its  size  in  the  State. 

While  the  general  public  was  favourable  to  the  road,  there  were 
certain  wise  ones  who  clung  with  satisfaction  to  the  memory  of  days 
when  the  pioneer  turned  the  corn  of  his  clearing  into  whisky;  his 
wheat  into  flour;  and  rafted  his  produce  down  the  Little  Wolf  River, 
and  thence  by  the  Ohio  and  Mississippi  to  New  Orleans,  where  boat 
and  cargo  were  exchanged  for  Spanish  silver.  These,  dubiously  re- 
garding what  the  world  in  its  short-sighted  folly  was  pleased  to  call 
progress,  pointed  out  that  even  yet,  all  the  town  traded  in,  found  its 
way  conveniently  enough  by  the  stage  road  to  lake  or  river  point;  so 
it  mattered  not  that  the  Little  Wolf  had  become  a  failing  stream, 
flowing  through  depleted  forest  lands;  so  shallow,  where  it  had  once 
floated  great  rafts,  that  now  the  lightest  skiff  was  steered  with  diffi- 
culty among  the  encroaching  sand-bars. 


712  THE  LANDRAYS 

These  ancient  oracles,  looking  back  over  forty  years  through  a 
haze  of  pleasant  memories,  took  no  stock  in  Colonel  Sharp's  mouth- 
filling  sentences.  They  declared  that  the  advent  of  the  railroad 
meant  the  town's  ruin,  for  how  could  a  town  reasonably  expect  to 
thrive  unless  it  was  at  either  one  end  or  the  other  of  a  line  ? 

For  full  ten  years  there  had  been  talk  of  this  railroad,  but  when  it 
did  come  and  when  the  first  brief  wonder  of  it  was  past,  it  was  at 
once  as  a  familiar  thing;  even  in  the  full  effulgence  of  its  newness, 
it  was  not  quite  a  miracle;  it  had  been  a  miracle  when  fifty  miles 
away;  it  was  still  a  miracle  when  this  distance  had  been  reduced  to 
ten  miles;  and  then  when  the  first  train  steamed  into  Benson,  the 
wonder  seemed  almost  as  remote,  as  the  day  when  the  first  horse  was 
broken  and  ridden  by  the  first  man,  that  pre-historic  genius  who  had 
found  his  own  legs  all  too  short  for  the  work  they  must  do. 

The  railroad  came  to  the  town  of  Benson  the  year  Benson,  the 
man,  returned  from  the  West.  It  came  visibly  one  cold  February 
day  in  a  flurry  of  snow,  and  with  the  fall  of  twilight;  a  puffing,  pant- 
ing engine,  of  even  then  obsolete  type,  drawing  a  single  dingy 
coach,  once  spectacularly  decked  with  streamers  and  flags,  now  wet 
and  bedraggled.  It  rumbled  out  of  the  deep  cut  north  of  town,  at  a 
rate  of  speed  variously  estimated  by  the  crowd  of  men  at  the  station 
at  from  ten  to  thirty  miles  an  hour. 

Young  Jacob  Benson,  as  a  stockholder,  with  certain  other  public- 
spirited  citizens,  who  between  them  had  taken  some  hundreds  of 
shares  in  the  enterprise,  formed  a  little  group  with  Mr.  Cammack 
the  mayor;  Captain  Tompkins,  the  sheriff;  Mr.  Bently,  the  post- 
master; the  members  of  the  town  council,  Colonel  Sharp  of  the 
Pioneer,  and  Judge  Bradly,  whose  presence  could  be  counted  on  at 
any  public  gathering  where  there  was  the  slightest  possibility  of 
argument  or  oratory,  for  both  of  which,  so  eminent  an  authority  as 
Colonel  Sharp  had  declared  him  singularly  fitted. 

This  opinion  having  been  carried  to  the  judge,  it  had  provoked  a 
sentiment  of  such  tropic  warmth  on  his  part,  that  the  colonel  rarely 
crossed  the  square  going  from  his  office  to  the  tavern  for  so  simple  a 
thing  as  a  drink  of  whisky,  without  the  judge,  whose  office  windows 
also  overlooked  the  square,  starting  in  instant  pursuit.  Being  favoured 
as  to  the  distance  he  had  to  cover,  he  was  usually  able  to  plant  him- 
self squarely  in  the  path  of  his  victim;  and  the  colonel,  mild  of  eye 
and  mein,  and  lacking  in  decision  of  character,  invariably  proffered 
the  expected  invitation. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIX  213 

Now  the  judge  held  the  editor  affectionately  by  the  arm;  but  ven- 
tured only  such  remarks  as  he  felt  must  fully  sustain  the  other's 
opinion  of  his  intellectual  attainments;  but  to  live  up  to  the  flattering 
opinion  the  colonel  entertained  for  him,  had  its  difficulties;  it  was 
quieting  and  not  conducive  to  conversation;  and  while  he  felt 
the  present  was  a  great  occasion,  an  occasion  pregnant  with  deep 
significance  for  the  future,  he  searched  his  mind,  which  was  plea- 
santly vacant,  for  some  thought  that  would  be  adequate  to  the  mo- 
ment. 

A  wave  of  enthusiasm  diffused  itself  over  the  crowd  as  the  engine's 
headlight  swung  out  of  the  cut  north  of  town. 

"Why,  the  infernal  thing's  smoking  like  a  cook  stove!"  cried  Mr. 
Bartlett  at  Benson's  elbow. 

Benson  turned  to  the  stage  driver, 

"Are  you  going  with  us  ?"  he  asked. 

"Me  ride  on  that  doggone  wheezy  contrivance,  me  risk  my  life 
on  that  blame  steaming  invention  where  I'm  likely  to  be  set  afire 
any  minute  ?  No,  sirt  You  don't  catch  me!" 

Benson  laughed. 

"I  don't  think  you  need  fear  that;  you'd  better  come  along." 

But  Mr.  Bartlett  only  shook  his  head. 

"And  they  say  the  stage  is  done  for,  put  out  of  business  by  that 
ornery  looking  concern.  I  don't  believe  it,  people's  got  too  much 
sense.  I  wouldn't  like  to  think  my  fellers  was  such  damn  fools.  What 
time  will  she  make,  do  you  reckon;  ten  miles  an  hour  ?" 

"Twice  that,  three  times  that,"  said  Benson. 

Mr.  Bartlett  shook  his  head. 

"That,"  said  he,  "is  one  of  your  yarns.  It  can't  be  done;  a  man 
can't  set  still  and  get  his  breath  going  at  that  clip.  Blame  it!  we  are 
coming  to  pretty  times.  It  will  scare  the  bosses,  it  will  run  over  cows; 
damned  if  it  ain't  real  dangerous!  What's  to  keep  it  from  just  scooting 
off  through  the  fields,  from  getting  clear  loose  ? "  He  skipped  back 
suddenly  in  some  alarm  as  the  engine  rolled  past,  but  when  it  came 
to  a  stop  he  recovered  his  courage.  "The  town's  done  for,"  he 
mourned.  "I'm  glad  I  ain't  a  property  owner;  catch  me  owning 
a  house  in  a  town  that's  got  a  railroad!  Travel  will  just  be  sliding 
past  at  a  top-notch  gait;  it  ain't  going  to  be  like  the  stage,  where  all 
hands  stop  to  take  a  drink  at  the  tavern  and  put  good  money  in  cir- 
culation. Now  they'll  be  piling  through  in  their  foolish  haste.  The 
big  towns  '11  suck  the  blood  out  of  the  little  towns." 


2i4  THE  LANDRAYS 

"His  is  the  world-old  cry  against  the  new,"  murmured  the  judge 
in  the  colonel's  ear  with  a  wise  shake  of  the  head. 

"They  say  the  government's  stopped  work  on  the  national  roads!" 
cried  Mr.  Bartlett  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger.  "And  the  canals  is 
done  for,  too!  Well,  there's  plenty  of  sense  in  a  canal,  for  its  natural 
to  ride  on  the  water,  and  I  ain't  opposed  to  anything  that's  natural, 
but  I'm  agin  all  foolishness." 

An  old  man,  bent  and  withered,  and  leaning  heavily  on  a  cane, 
pushed  his  eager  way  into  the  centre  of  the  little  group. 

"Why,  Mr.  Randall,  what  are  you  doing  here?"  said  the  stage 
driver.  "I  reckon  you  don't  take  much  stock  in  this  foolishness? 
You've  heard  a  heap  too  much  nonsense  talked  in  your  time  to  be 
fooled  now." 

The  old  man  shot  him  a  shrewd  glance  out  of  his  beady  black  eyes. 

"It's  fat  Jim  Bartlett!"  he  said  in  a  shrill  cracked  treble.  "Fat 
Jim  Bartlett,  who's  seeing  the  last  of  his  easy  hoss-driving  job." 

"Don't  you  believe  it,  pap!"  said  the  stage  driver  good-naturedly. 

The  old  man  rapped  on  the  new  station  platform  with  his  heavy 
thorn  walking  stick. 

"Why  ain't  there  more  doing,  jedge  ?"  he  said.  "You  should  ha* 
seen  us  here  when  the  fust  stage  coach  come  through  from  clean 
acrost  the  mountings." 

"Do  you  remember  that?"  asked  Colonel  Sharp  interestedly. 

"Do  I  remember  it!  I've  seen  this  here  country  grow  outen  the 
timber.  It  was  rolling  green  for  two  hundred  miles,  smooth  and 
round  as  a  duck's  breast,  when  I  crost  the  mountings;  not  a  clearing, 
not  a  road,  not  a  house.  I  seen  the  fust  booted  foot  that  was  put  onto 
the  trace;  the  fust  shod  hoof;  I  seen  the  fust  grist  of  corn  that  was 
ground  on  the  Little  Wolf;  I  seen  the  fust  barrel  of  whisky  that  was 
run  outen  a  still;  I  seen  the  fust  flat-bottomed  boat  that  was  poled 
up  from  the  Ohio;  I  seen  the  fust  wheeled  cart  that  General  Landray 
fetched  in  from  Virginia,  when  he  come  with  his  niggers;  and  I  seen 
the  fust  stage  coach,  and  rid  in  it,  too,  long  enough  afore  your 
.time,  fat  Jim  Bartlett!  That's  enough  to  crowd  into  one  life  time, 
ain't  it?"' 

"You  seen  a  plenty  when  you  seen  the  stage,  pap,"  said  Mr.  Bart- 
lett, tolerantly.  "I  believe  in  letting  good  enough  alone,  I  do.  The 
world  got  on  pretty  tolerable  well  for  a  many  year  without  none  of 
these  here  railroads!" 

But  the  stage  driver  had  the  argument  to  himself;  the  judge  and 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIX  215 

Benson  and  their  friends  were  entering  the  coach,  and  they  had 
taken  old  Pap  Randall  with  them.  And  then  presently  the  miracle  of 
steam  and  iron  rumbled  off  down  the  track  to  cross  the  new  railroad 
bridge  which  spanned  the  Little  Wolf  River  not  two  hundred  yards 
distant  'rom  where  the  old  covered  bridge  stood,  stained  and 
weather-beaten,  with  here  and  there  a  board  missing. 

The  river  rippled  beneath  the  bridges,  the  old  and  the  new,  where 
it  had  once  swept  in  silent  volume,  soundless  and  deep.  From  the 
bank  above,  the  big  warehouses  cast  long  black  shadows. 

The  day  of  flat  boats  had  come  and  gone;  the  river,  with  its  failing 
flow  and  the  sand-bars  that  choked  its  channel,  had  been  the  first 
means  of  pioneer  trade;  and  now  the  stage  road  was  doomed  too, 
this  new  marvel  had  come  to  usurp  its  use,  to  take  its  place,  its  trade, 
its  life;  the  life  of  cross-road  shops,  and  stores,  and  taverns.  It  would 
soon  be  shorn  of  its  dignity,  its  traffic  of  herds  and  flocks,  and  heavy 
merchandize,  the  hurry  and  bustle  of  its  flying  mail  stages;  to  be  left  a 
thing  disused,  a  mere  country  highway,  the  relic  of  a  day  of  lesser  needs 
and  smaller  activities.  Two  strands  of  wire,  hung  on  poles,  followed 
the  course  of  the  railroad;  and  on  these  the  wind  played  a  dirge. 

It  was  midnight  when  their  little  journey  by  rail  ended;  and  Judge 
Bradly  attached  himself  to  Benson  as  the  party  separated.  The  night 
was  cold  and  raw,  and  the  two  men  walked  rapidly  up  the  street. 
They  came  to  the  judge's  boarding-house,  and  Benson  paused. 

"Good-night,  judge,"  he  said. 

The  judge  was  searching  his  pockets  one  after  another.  "I  seem 
to  have  lost  my  key.  This  thing  of  boarding  is  a  great  mistake. 
Every  man  should  have  a  wife  to  let  him  in  when  he  stays  out  late!" 

"See  if  you  can  make  some  one  hear;  if  you  can't,  you'd  better 
come  with  me,"  said  Benson. 

The  judge  mounted  the  steps  and  began  to  pound  vigorously  on  the 
door.  He  continued  this  for  a  minute  or  two,  pausing  at  intervals  to 
listen. 

"Oh,  come  along!"  cried  Benson  impatiently. 

The  judge  abandoned  the  attempt,  however,  with  some  reluctancer 
but  he  rejoined  Benson  after  delivering  a  final  kick  to  the  door. 

"I  like,"  said  he,  adjusting  himself  to  a  new  and  pleasant  train  of 
thought  as  they  moved  away,  "  I  like  a  hot  whisky  when  I  come  in 
late;  it's  been  one  of  the  little  luxuries  I  have  carried  into  my  lonely 
state." 


216  THE  LANDRAYS 

"You  shall  have  your  hot  whisky,  judge,"  said  Benson. 

"My  dear  Jake,  you  must  not  let  me  put  you  to  any  trouble;  for  I 
know  that  admirably  conducted  as  your  house  is,  you  rather  ignore 
the  liquids.  So  if  hot  whiskey  makes  too  great  a  demand,  I'd  suggest 
that  just  plain  whisky  is  preferable  to  no  whiskey  at  all.  When  a 
man  is  on  the  wrong  side  of  fifty,  his  little  nips  do  him  a  world  of 
good." 

They  had  reached  their  destination,  and  Benson  unlocked  his 
office  door  and  motioned  the  judge  to  precede  him  into  the  room. 

A  lamp  was  burning  on  his  desk,  and  the  big  logs  he  had  thrown 
on  the  fire  earlier  in  the  evening  had  wasted  to  a  mass  of  glowing 
coals.  He  added  a  stick  or  two,  and  soon  a  cheerful  blaze  was  roaring 
in  the  wide  chimney.  Having  rid  himself  of  his  hat  and  coat,  Benson 
produced  a  black  bottfe  and  two  glasses  from  his  cupboard,  and 
sugar  and  a  pitcher  of  hot  water  from  the  kitchen;  the  judge  watched 
these  preparations  with  grave  but  silent  approval.  This  approval 
grew  and  reached  its  zenith,  when  he  on  one  side  of  the  fireplace,  and 
his  host  on  the  other,  smiled  and  nodded  over  the  rims  of  their 
glasses.  They  sipped  in  silent  enjoyment,  with  their  feet  thrust  out 
toward  the  fire. 

"Jake,"  said  the  judge,  "it's  well  that  the  pitcher  has  capacity. 
This  is  just  right.  If  you  attempted  to  duplicate  it,  you  might  fail. 
Failure  is  always  a  sad  thing,  Jake,  a  thing  to  be  avoided." 

"It  is,"  agreed  Benson. 

"My  dear  boy,  I  am  troubled,"  said  the  judge.  He  threw  a  certain 
significance  into  the  glance  that  accompanied  these  words. 

"And  what  have  you  to  worry  about?"  questioned  the  younger 
man  lazily. 

"I'm  alone,"  began  the  judge  in  his  mellow  voice.  "Quite  alone. 
I  may  say  a  homeless  vagabond.  This  is  the  second  time  I've  been 
locked  out  this  winter.  Now  I  ask  you,  Jake,  what  sort  of  a  life  is 
this  for  a  man  of  my  years,  and  if  you  will  allow  me,  my  posi- 
tion?" 

"Well,"  said  Benson,  cheerfully,  "you  shouldn't  forget  your  key." 

"That's  a  detail  I  never  had  to  burden  myself  with  in  Mrs.  Brad- 
ly's  lifetime,  sir.  It  was  her  pride  to  care  for  me  in  such  matters;  it 
furnished  her  with  occupation."  There  was  a  long  pause,  during 
which  the  judge's  glass  was  filled  and  emptied  and  filled  again,  and 
then  he  spoke. 

"Have  you  seen  Mrs.  Landray  recently?"  he  asked. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIX  217 

" Which  Mrs.  Landray?" 

"Bush's  widow." 

"Not  recently;  why  ?" 

"I  was  merely  curious."  And  he  was  silent  again,  but  not  for  long. 

"Jake?" 

"Yes,  judge." 

"She's  going  to  make  a  fool  of  herself." 

"I  dare  say,"  said  Benson  indifferently. 

The  judge  stared  at  him  in  some  surprise. 

"You  dare  say?"  he  repeated. 

"I  mean  it's  quite  likely." 

"  In  what  particular  ?"  demanded  the  judge. 

"Oh,  in  any  particular,"  said  Benson.  "I  haven't  formulated  any 
definite  theories  where  she  is  concerned." 

The  judge  considered  this  in  silence  for  a  time. 

"This  is  merely  a  general  opinion  ?"  he  asked  at  last. 

"Merely  a  general  opinion,"  said  Benson  amiably. 

"Then  you  haven't  observed  any  new  developments?" 

"No;"  and  Benson  yawned. 

"You  have  heard  no  gossip  ?" 

"None;  I  didn't  know  there  was  any." 

"You  are  quite  sure  you  haven't  noticed  anything,  Jake?" 

"Quite." 

"Not  this  new  bent  of  hers  ?" 

"Oh,  you  mean  her  religious  interests  ?  Why,  they're  natural 
enough.  I  thought  them  rather  hopeful." 

"Hopeful!"  repeated  the  judge  bristling. 

"Yes,  certainly;  religion's  a  good  thing  for  any  one." 

"Religion!"  and  the  judge  snorted  the  word  with  angry  contempt 
"Well,  if  you  choose  to  call  it  religion!" 

"What  do  you  call  it?"  inquired  Benson. 

"Observe  me,  Jake;  a  man  seems  as  necessary  to  some  women's 
religion  as  a  God.  In  her  case,  it's  that  long-legged  scarecrow  from 
India!  You  mark  my  words,  the  little  fool  will  marry  him!  Well, 
she  could  'a  done  better." 

"What!"  cried  Benson.  "Dr.  Stillman;  no!" 

"The  little  fool  will  marry  him,"  repeated  the  judge  slowly  and 
sternly.  Then  he  sighed  deeply. 

"And  what  if  she  does,"  said  Benson. 

"Well,  I  am  glad  you  can  view  it  so  calmly.'* 


2i 8  THE  LANDRAYS 

"I  can,  just  that  calmly,"  said  Benson  cheerfully. 

"I  can't,"  said  the  judge.  "To  me,  sir,  it  is  a  mater  of  considerable 
moment." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  Benson. 

"My  dear  boy,  this  is  a  weakness  I  shrink  from  revealing,  but  I 
feel  assured  of  your  delicacy,  so  I  shall  speak  frankly  and  without 
reserve."  The  judge  considered  for  a  moment.  "I  have  had,  how 
many  whiskies,  Jake  ?" 

"Five,"  said  his  host  promptly. 

"  I  made  it  four;  but  never  mind,  it's  a  point  on  which  I  am  likely 
enough  to  be  mistaken." 

"What's  that  to  do  with  it?"  inquired  Benson. 

"The  vine,"  said  the  judge,  "inspired  some  of  the  choicest  out- 
bursts of  classic  poetry;  I  suppose  the  distillery  will  some  day  inspire 
a  truly  American  muse  —  you  don't  follow  me  ? " 

"Not  quite." 

"The  point  is  that  I  may  speak  with  an  abandon  I  should  eschew 
at  another  time.  Five  hot  whiskies  make  a  difference  in  the  intensity 
of  a  man's  emotions.  To-morrow  I  shall  probably  regret  my  can- 
dour; so  I  want  to  feel  that  in  remembering  what  I  say  to-night,  you 
will  not  fail  to  recall  that  this  excellent  mixture  may  have  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  it." 

"I  think  I  understand,"  said  Benson  laughing. 

"Two  o'clock  in  the  morning  confidences  are  always  personal, 
Jake;  a  man  seldom  stays  up  late  unless  it  is  to  talk  of  himself,  or  to 
drink,  and  in  either  case  the  result  is  the  same ;  he  says  too 
much." 

"Aren't  you  rather  forgetting  Mrs.  Landray  ?"  inquired  Benson. 

"Jake,  it's  outrageous  that  she  should  be  allowed  to  sacrifice 
herself." 

"  I  didn't  know  —  "  began  Benson. 

"You  are  going  to  say  you  didn't  know  it  was  a  matter  of  any 
interest  to  me." 

"Something  of  the  sort,"  said  Benson.  "When  I  came  back  you 
did  seem  interested,  but  I  didn't  take  it  seriously;  and  to  tell  you  the 
truth  your  interest  struck  me  as  premature." 

"That  was  only  your  inexperience,  Jake;  it's  quite  evident  your 
knowledge  in  such  matters  is  all  gleaned  at  second  hand.  I  dallied 
with  the  situation  too  long.  I  couldn't  quite  make  up  my  mind  ; 
there  are  merits  in  being  married,  and  there  are  merits  in  being 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIX  219 

single;  you  can't  have  your  cake  and  eat  it,  too;  and  while  I  was  pon- 
dering the  matter,  Stillman  cut  in.  It  was  plain  from  the  very  mo- 
ment he  arrived  in  town  that  he  was  to  have  the  pick  of  our  eligible 
female  population.  Disgusting,  ain't  it?" 

"Very,"  agreed  Benson. 

"I'm  threshing  over  old  chaff  with  you,  Jake.  My  chances  now 
are  about  like  the  camel's  at  getting  through  the  needle's  eye,  not 
worth  mentioning." 

"Then  you  did  come  to  a  decision  ?" 

"After  I  had  hung  fire  long  enough  to  decide  I  wanted  what  some 
other  man  had  won.  That's  one  of  the  risks  you  take  when  you  wait 
until  you're  sure  you're  right  before  you  go  ahead." 

"As  a  widower,  judge  —  " 

"At  present  a  widower,  Jake;  kindly  phrase  it  so;  for  who  is  master 
of  his  fate?"  he  adjusted  his  stock  rather  pompously.  "I  am  a  man 
of  some  sentiment.  Drat  it!  At  fifty  odd,  and  with  sound  health,  one 
does  not  willingly  admit  that  the  best  things  in  life  are  past!  There 
are  other  widows  —  damn  it,  sir!  There  are  maids,  too!"  and  he 
wagged  his  head  and  leered  knowingly  at  Benson.  The  hot  whisky 
had  steadily  diminished,  but  for  its  disappearance  the  judge  and  not 
Benson  was  responsible.  The  judge  now  tilted  the  pitcher  over  the 
glass  he  held  in  his  uncertain  right  hand,  but  only  a  drop  or  two  fell 
from  it;  he  looked  hard  at  his  host,  but  his  host  avoided  his  glance. 
With  a  sigh  he  placed  the  pitcher  bottom  up  on  the  floor  at  his  feet, 
and  his  glass  beside  it,  also  inverted.  "Jake,  have  you  any  influence 
with  her  ? " 

"Not  the  least  in  the  world,  judge." 

"Hum!  That's  unfortunate.  I  hoped  that  you  might  have,  and 
that  you  might  be  willing  to  exert  it  in  my  behalf;  casually,  of  course, 
very  casually  ;  a  word  here,  a  word  there." 

"I  would  if  I  possessed  it,  judge;  but  you  see  in  trying  to  control 
her  expenditures  I  have  sacrificed  some  portion  of  her  regard." 

"And  her  money  will  go  to  that  confounded  missionary!"  and  the 
judge  groaned  aloud  in  bitterness  of  spirit. 

"But  how  do  you  know  that  it  will  ?"  asked  Benson. 

"It  is  as  plain  as  the  nose  on  your  face!  He  is  always  there,  and 
she  has  become  a  terrible  prig  ;  and  last  night  I  found  her  reading, 
what  do  you  think,  Jake  ?  Edwards  on  'Redemption!'  She  told  me 
she  felt  instructed,  quickened,  strengthened,  by  its  precious  message! 
Now  she'd  stick  to  a  lighter  intellectual  diet  if  there  wasn't  a  man  in 


220  THE  LANDRAYS 

sight ;  she  s  after  more  than  redemption!  Jake,  can't  you  help  me  ? 
I'm  to  be  pitied,  sir!  I  no  sooner  see  some  female  capable  of  engen- 
dering a  sentimental  interest  in  my  breast,  than  fate  intervenes,"  he 
smiled  darkly.  "I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  this  is  the  third  minis- 
ter of  the  Gospel  who  has  crossed  my  path." 

He  had  fallen  more  and  more  a  prey  to  his  sorrow,  until  it  quite 
unmanned  him,  his  forebodings  becoming  of  the  most  gloomy  char- 
acter imaginable. 

"I  shall  nip  the  bud  of  affection  next  time  before  it  becomes  the 
open  flower  of  love  !  I'm  marked  for  disappointment ;  I  feel  its 
blight,  and  I  succumb  !  Confound  it,  Jake  !  she  led  me  on,  now  I 
come  to  think  of  it  —  her  conduct's  been  highly  scandalous!  I  wonder 
what  her  friends,  what  her  sister-in-law  is  going  to  say,  when  this 
gets  out?" 

"I  wonder,  too!"  said  Benson. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SEVEN 

WHEN  Virginia  first  heard  the  gossip  that  linked  Anna's 
name  with  that  of  Dr.  Stillman's,  it  won  from  her  a 
shocked  and  indignant  denial;  but  a  doubt  was  born  in 
her  mind;  it  troubled  her  not  a  little  the  more  she  thought  of  it;  and 
she  drove  at  once  into  town  determined  to  learn  if  possible  the  whole 
truth. 

She  found  Anna  at  home.  With  her  was  a  tall,  dark  man,  a  man 
with  a  narrow  receding  forehead,  a  sallow  skin,  and  lean  jaws.  With 
much  apparent  solicitude  she  was  hovering  over  this  visitor  whom 
she  was  regaling  with  afternoon  tea.  To  Virginia  she  introduced  him 
as  Dr.  Stillman,  and  in  a  single  swift  glance  Virginia  took  stock  of 
him  as  she  acknowledged  the  introduction  by  a  curtsey,  that  was 
palpably  most  disquieting  to  the  missionary;  indeed,  her  manner 
was  so  cold  and  distant  that  the  smile  which  had  relaxed  his  thin  lips 
frittered  itself  away  in  the  embarrassed  silence  that  fell  upon  him. 

He  was  aware  that  he  must  reckon  on  the  antagonism  of  this 
splendid  beauty;  for  he  had  been  quick  to  recognize  that  the  antago- 
nism was  there.  It  shook  his  sleek  self-approval,  and  he  turned  to 
Anna,  —  Anna  with  her  soft  ways  and  pretty  flatteries  which  made 
him  feel  strong  and  masterful  and  thoroughly  at  ease  in  her  parlour, 
with  a  pleasant  proprietory  interest  in  her  and  in  all  that  belonged 
to  her; —  but  he  was  at  once  made  to  understand  that  in  this  small 
family  crisis  he  was  to  stand  alone. 

He  had  heard  the  phrase,  a  great  lady,  and  the  younger  Mrs. 
Landray  lived  up  to  the  title  in  a  most  disquieting  fashion.  There 
was  a  subtle  claim  to  superiority  on  her  part  that  he  weakly  accepted 
without  a  challenge  or  the  wish  to  assert  himself.  Anna's  quite  un- 
common prettiness,  too,  paled  beside  Virginia's  fuller  beauty,  which 
had  never  been  complimentary  to  others  of  her  sex. 

Virginia,  meanwhile,  had  been  indulging  in  certain  frigid  civilities 
that  did  not  exactly  include  the  doctor,  yet  did  not  actually  ignore  his 


222  THE  LANDRAYS 

presence;  they  were  sufficiently  restrained,  however;  and  he  eagerly 
availed  himself  of  the  first  opening  to  beat  a  retreat,  and  backed 
awkwardly  from  the  room.  On  the  steps  with  the  house  door  closed 
at  his  back,  he  paused,  and  an  unhealthy  glow  suffused  his  cheeks. 
The  memory  of  her  manner  toward  him  rankled  and  hurt  his  pride; 
then  he  recalled  Anna's  soft  farewells,  and  clapped  his  tall  beaver 
on  his  head  with  an  air  that  was  almost  jaunty,  while  his  dark  eyes 
flashed  with  triumph. 

"So  that  is  Dr.  Stillman?"  said  Virginia,  when  the  door  had 
closed  on  the  missionary;  and  as  this  did  not  seem  to  call  for  a  reply, 
Anna  was  silent.  "I  have  been  hearing  a  good  deal  about  him."  She 
shot  Anna  a  swift  searching  glance. 

"Yes/'  said  Anna  airily,  "he  is  very  much  before  the  public." 

"I  don't  mean  in  those  ways,"  said  Virginia.  "He  doesn't  seem  a 
very  cheerful  person,"  she  added. 

"That  depends  on  how  you  take  him,  and  I  must  say,  Virginia, 
you  were  almost  rude  to  the  man,  I  never  saw  him  so  ill  at  ease." 

"Was  I  ?  I'm  sorry,  I  didn't  mean  to  be." 

"That  was  the  trouble,  you  didn't  mean  to  be  anything  to  him; 
he  might  just  as  well  have  been  a  piece  of  furniture,  for  all  the 
notice  he  got  from  you." 

"Don't  you  think  it  unwise  of  you  to  see  so  much  of  him  ?"  asked 
Virginia  abruptly. 

"Why  is  it  unwise?"  demanded  Anna,  who  was  instantly  on  the 
defencive. 

"It  will  make  talk,"  urged  Virginia  gently. 

"Anything  will  make  that;"  Anna  said.  "I'm  sure  I'm  careful, 
I  see  almost  no  one,  I  go  nowhere!  I  don't  know  what  more  you 
can  ask  of  me,  Virginia." 

"But  the  doctor  comes  here  very  frequently,  does  he  not  ?" 

"Dear  me!"  said  Anna  fretfully.  "One  can  hear  most  anything  if 
one  will  only  listen." 

"Of  course,  I  know  it's  the  merest  gossip  —  you  couldn't  — 
she  broke  off  abruptly. 

Anna  elevated  her  eyebrows.  "I  don't  see  why  any  one  should  say 
anything;  he  calls  occasionally,  he  is  interested  in  — 

"Interested,  dear,  in  you?"  questioned  Virginia. 

"Oh,  dear,  no!  In  my  spiritual  welfare,"  she  dropped  her  eyes 
prettily. 

Virginia  laughed  quite  audibly  at  this. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SEVEN  223 

Anna  shivered  at  the  sound.  She  hated  ridicule. 

"Since  poor  Bush's  death,  I  have  felt  that  my  life  has  been  so 
worldly;  indeed,  I  feel  that  I  can  never  return  to  my  former  career 
of  folly,"  she  sighed. 

"Isn't  that  a  rather  harsh  name  for  it  ?  But  I  don't  see  what  Dr. 
Sdllman  has  to  do  with  that,"  said  Virginia. 

"Amusements  have  lost  their  relish.  I  am  feeling  the  need  of  a 
more  evangelical  faith,"  murmured  Anna.  The  younger  Mrs.  Lan- 
dray  laughed  outright  at  this. 

"And  I  suppose  that  is  the  reason  you  delight  in  the  doctor's 
evangelical  conversation." 

Anna  sighed. 

"Of  course  nothing  is  sacred  to  ridicule." 

"Oh,  don't  be  silly!"  said  Virginia  sharply.  "Don't  confound  the 
doctor  with  his  teachings!" 

But  Anna  repelled  the  idea  by  a  look. 

"I  do  wish  I  knew  what  you  meant,"  said  Virginia. 

"Oh,  I  am  so  lonely!"  cried  Anna,  with  sudden  frankness.  "Of 
course  I  loved  Bush,  but  I  can't  live  in  the  memory  of  that!  I  am  not 
like  you,  Virginia;  there  is  this  difference,  why  don't  you  try  and 
understand  it;"  and  then,  by  degrees,  she  told  Virginia  all;  while 
the  latter  sat  at  her  side,  shocked,  silent,  and  indignant.  She  had 
promised  to  marry  the  missionary.  "I  thought  life  had  ended  for  me 
with  Bush's  death,  but  I  find  I  can  still  be  something  to  some  one," 
she  added  in  justification  of  the  step  she  had  taken. 

"I  see,"  said  Virginia,  with  unexpected  gentleness,  and  the  anger 
faded  from  her  eyes,  and  in  its  place  was  only  sorrow. 

"I  was  devoted  to  him  while  he  lived  —  you  know  that,  Virginia  ?" 
insisted  Anna,  almost  fiercely.  "And  I  adore  his  memory,  and  always 
shall,  but  it's  not  enough,"  she  looked  up  into  her  sister's  face. 
"You  will  never  marry  again,  you  are  different  from  me.  Oh,  I  wish 
I  were  like  you,  dear!" 

"What  about  little  Stephen?"  asked  Virginia  quietly.  She  ac- 
cepted the  situation,  she  felt  there  was  nothing  more  to  say. 

"We  shan't  take  him  with  us,"  said  Anna,  greatly  relieved  by  the 
Other's  altered  tone. 

"Take  him  with  you  where?"  demanded  Virginia. 

"To  India,"  answered  Anna. 

"To  India!"  cried  Virginia. 

"Yes,  to  India;"  but  there  was  no  little  trepidation  in  her  manner. 


224  THE  LANDRAYS 

"You  surely  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  man  proposes  to  marry 
you  and  take  you  to  India  ?" 

"Why,  of  course,  dear,"  meekly,  and  as  if  this  were  the  most  nat- 
ural thing  in  the  world. 

Virginia  looked  at  her  in  wonder.  With  Bush,  she  had  always  had 
her  own  way,  he  had  denied  her  nothing.  Virginia  remembered 
her  insistence;  that  she  had  never  abandoned  a  purpose  or  desire 
until  he  yielded;  and  she  mentally  contrasted  the  handsome,  easy- 
going fellow  with  this  narrow-browed  stranger  from  over  the  seas, 
and  was  moved  to  something  very  like  pity  for  Anna. 

"Why  don't  you  leave  little  Stephen  with  me?"  she  at  length 
asked. 

"I  thought  you  might  like  to  have  him;  of  course  not  for  always," 
she  hastened  to  explain.  "But  the  doctor  says  India  is  no  place  for 
children." 

"He  is  going  to  return  there?  You  have  not  sought  to  dissuade 
him,  to  use  your  influence  ? " 

"I  haven't  tried.  It  would  be  useless.  He  has  started  such  a  great 
work  there  among  those  dreadful  pagans;  he  thinks  I  can  be  of  such 
help  to  him  in  his  labours." 

And  Virginia  saw  that  vanity,  and  probably  a  very  real  sense  of 
loss,  had  worked  this  change  in  Anna;  she  also  realized  from  the 
ready  acceptance  of  the  life  the  doctor  had  mapped  out  for  her, 
something  of  the  man's  determination  of  character,  a  force  that  was 
all  the  stronger  because  of  the  narrow  channels  into  which  it  had 
been  directed  by  the  chance  that  had  determined  his  career. 

"So  I  am  to  have  little  Stephen  —  poor  little  fellow!" 

They  were  silent  for  a  time  and  then  Anna  said,  still  in  justifica- 
tion of  her  course. 

"It's  my  chance  for  happiness,  Virginia.  I'm  too  young  to  bury 
myself  alive,  I  know  Bush  wouldn't  expect  it,  I  know  he  would 
approve;  and  you  can't  think  what  a  comfort  that  conviction  is!" 

"And  you  really  expect  to  marry  Dr.  Stillman  ?  "  Virginia  set  her 
lips.  "Then  I  have  nothing  more  to  say,  Anna,  absolutely  nothing ; 
you  must  judge  for  yourself.  I  don't  propose  to  criticize  you,  or  your 
future  husband  ;  no  good  can  come  of  that,  and  we  won't  be 
friends  long  if  I  do.  Of  course  I'll  take  little  Stephen,  you  know 
that  all  along  I  have  wanted  you  and  him  at  the  farm;  I'd  rather  have 
you  both,  but  I  see  that  will  never  be,"  she  quitted  her  chair  as  she 
spoke. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SEVEN  325 

"Oh,  please  don't  go  just  yet,  dear,"  entreated  Anna.  Now  that 
Virginia  knew,  and  seemed  so  reasonable  in  her  opinions  she  would 
have  liked  to  keep  her  and  make  her  her  confidant;  there  was  much 
to  tell,  so  much  in  the  way  of  profitable  discussion  of  her  plans. 
But  Virginia  had  heard  enough. 

"I  must  go,  Anna,  I  really  must  go;  Sam  West  is  tired  of  waiting 
for  me,  and  I  wish  to  go  home,"  she  sighed  gently.  "I  shall  be 
sorry  to  lose  you,  dear,"  she  said  graciously,  "and  perhaps  when  I 
am  a  little  more  familiar  with  the  idea  I  shall  see  it  differently; 
more  as  you  see  it." 

But  on  the  drive  home,  the  cheerfulness  she  had  assumed  in 
Anna's  presence  left  her;  she  realized  that  it  was  but  z  few  months 
since  they  had  really  known  of  their  loss,  and  already  Anna  had 
formed  new  ties  and  interests,  and  these  far  removed  from  anything 
that  had  fallen  within  their  past  experiences.  India  —  it  vaguely  sug- 
gested the  ends  of  the  earth,  but  beyond  this  it  was  only  a  sound,  if 
carried  no  meaning. 

It  was  found  that  Anna's  affairs  and  their  adjustment,  presented 
certain  difficulties  which  necessitated  the  calling  in  of  the  patient 
Benson.  By  the  terms  of  her  husband's  will,  she  was,  in  the  event  of 
her  second  marriage,  to  take  one  third  of  his  estate  and  the  house  in 
town,  the  remainder  going  to  little  Stephen. 

Virginia  consented  to  the  expedient  of  mortgaging  the  mill.  It  was 
in  vain  that  Benson  expostulated;  pointing  out  the  manifest  unfair- 
ness of  such  a  course;  but  a  very  satisfactory  condition  resulted  from 
the  buying  out  of  Anna's  interest;  he  was  relieved  of  her,  and  now  he 
could  administer  Virginia's  means  to  the  best  possible  advantage. 

He  would  like  to  have  known  just  what  Virginia  thought  about 
Anna's  marriage,  but  he  never  ventured  to  ask;  and  he  fancied  he 
detected  in  her  manner  a  certain  reserve  whenever  it  was  under 
discussion. 

Benson  also  found  a  purchaser  for  Anna's  house  in  town,  and  she 
overcame  her  dislike  for  the  country  sufficiently  to  go  out  to  the 
farm  with  little  Stephen,  where  she  remained  until  her  marriage, 
which  occurred  late  in  the  summer  following  Benson's  return  from 
the  west.  To  the  very  last  she  was  sustained  by  her  love  of  ex- 
citement; but  when  Benson,  and  Dr.  Stillman,  and  Dr.  Stillman's 
brother,  who  had  performed  the  ceremony,  had  withdrawn  to  the 
library  where  they  spent  a  gloomy  half  hour  in  waiting  for  Sam  West 
to  drive  up  to  the  door;  and  she  and  Virginia  with  Jane  had  gone 


226  THE  LANDRAYS 

up-stairs  to  finish  packing  her  trunks;  her  gaiety  quite  left  her;  she 
appreciated  for  the  first  time  the  radical  nature  of  the  change  that 
was  before  her;  and  she  clung  to  Virginia  with  many  endearments, 
weeping  softly. 

"I  may  never  come  back,  Virginia;  and  if  I  don't,  you  will  be  a 
mother  to  my  boy  ? " 

"He  is  more  to  me  than  any  one  else  in  the  world,  now  that  you 
are  going  away,  dear,"  said  Virginia  gently.  She  had  forgotten  all  of 
Anna's  selfishness,  her  general  unfairness,  and  the  fact  that  she  had 
not  disdained  to  drive  an  exceedingly  close  bargain  in  the  division  of 
the  estate  ;  the  latter,  a  point  that  the  exasperated  Benson  could 
not  get  over  and  which  he  had  kept  before  her  with  some  insistence. 
These  were  the  contradictory  elements  in  human  nature  she  felt;  and 
her  only  emotion  now  was  one  of  generous  pity. 

"Where  is  Stephen,  Virginia  ?" 

"He  is  with  Martha  ;  shall  Jane  go  for  him  ?" 

"No,  not  yet.  Let  him  stay  with  Martha  till  the  last  minute;  until 
just  before  I  go  You  will  do  more  for  him  than  I  could,  Virginia;  it 
is  only  believing  this  that  makes  it  possible  for  me  to  leave  him.  You 
are  lots  wiser  than  I  am,  so  perhaps  it  is  providential  that  he  should 
be  left  with  you.  When  I  come  back  in  three  or  four  years  I  expect 
he  will  be  quite  a  big  fellow,  but  don't  let  him  forget  his  mother. 
Perhaps  I  haven't  been  just  the  best  mother  in  the  world,  but  in  my 
own  way  I  love  him  ;  you  will  not  let  him  forget  me —  promise! 
Oh,  it  is  so  dreadful  to  be  torn  by  these  different  loves  and  duties,  I 
wish  I  was  sure  that  I  was  doing  right!  The  doctor  doesn't  seem  to 
have  any  doubts,  he  is  quite  sure  that  I  am." 

But  Virginia  had  nothing  to  say  to  this  She  disliked  Dr.  Stillman, 
for  with  true  feminine  constancy  she  had  refused  to  modify  her  first 
unfavourable  opinion  of  him.  Anna  she  could  forgive  for  her  weakness 
and  selfishness,  and  for  what  she  considered  her  lack  of  any  deep 
feeling,  for  Anna  belonged  to  the  family  and  bore  the  name  of  Lan- 
dray;  but  the  doctor  was  to  be  judged  by  quite  different  standards; 
the  charity  she  chose  to  exercise  in  the  one  case  did  not  apply  to  the 
other. 

And  Anna  having  done  exactly  what  she  wished,  having  had  her 
own  way  in  every  particular,  and  having  sacrificed  nothing  of  her 
feelings,  her  convenience,  or  her  worldly  fortunes,  was  now  bent 
on  being  handsomely  contrite 

"I  have  been  frivolous  and  extravagant,  and  I  expect  a  great  care 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SEVEN  227 

to  you,  Virginia,  since  poor  Bush  went  away.  I  hope  you  will  forgive 


me. 


"You  have  nothing  to  reproach  yourself  with,  dear,"  Virginia 

assured  her. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  have!  I  fear  even  in  settling  up  the  estate  1  was  selhsh 
I  should  not  have  asked  you  to  buy  out  my  interest.  Mr.  Benson  said 
I  was  involving  you  and  the  property.  I  don't  see  why  he  should  have 
added  that  to  my  burdens  at  this  time.  I  don't  think  he  likes  me  any 
more;  but  it  doesn't  matter  about  him,  Virginia;  I  don't  care  what  he 
thinks,  but  it  means  everything  to  me  what  you  think!  And  you 
won't  be  influenced  by  what  he  says  about  the  property;  that  I  should 
pay  back  the  extra  money  I  had  before  we  knew  ?  That  was  pure 
spite,  Virginia!"  „ 

"  I  am  sure  he  didn  t  mean  it  as  you  think,  dear. 
"Then  I  wish  he  hadn't  said  it;  for  I  shall  always  be  troubled  by 
it,  especially  as  I  think  it  is  quite  true;  no,  I  can't  cheat  myself 
I  am  going  away  with  a  guilty  conscience  in  the  matter;  my  only  con- 
solation is  that  I  shall  probably  have  to  make  great  sacrifices  for 
those  awful  pagans!  The  doctor  has  assured  me  that  my  life  will  be 
one  of  the  greatest  self-denial;  you  can  think  of  me  out  there  as  being 
all  I  was  not  here,  but  should  have  been!" 
"I  wish  you  were  not  going!"  said  Virginia. 

"I  feel  that  I  am  passing  out  of  your  life,  and  out  of  Stephen  s; 
perhaps  I  shall  never  come  back—  I  begin  to  be  afraid!" 
"Oh,  no,  that  is  nonsense!" 

"Do  you  really  think  so,  Virginia  ?  You  are  such  a  comfort!  You 
will  have  Stephen  write  me,  I  shall  get  so  much  happiness  from  h 
dear  little  scrawls!"  .  . 

By  this  time  she  was  dressed  for  her  journey;  and  Virginia  and 
Tane  were  busy  with  her  trunks.  Anna  sat  and  watched  them, 
slowly  drawing  on  her  gloves,  and  occasionally  favouring  them 
with  suggestions  and  advice.  She  had  already  recovered  much 
of  her  cheerfulness;  and  it  was  plain  that  the  proper  packing 
of  those  trunks  was  now  the  matter  that  rested  heaviest  on  her 

11  Down  stairs  in  the  library,  Benson  and  Dr.  Stillman,  and  Dr.  Still- 
man's  brother  sat  stiffly  in  their  chairs  and  watched  the  gilt  hands  of 
the  big  marble  clock  on  the  mantle-piece.  Benson  erect  and  uncom- 
fortable, and  monosyllabic  as  to  speeches  finding  Mr.  Stillman  fussy 
and  objectionable;  and  he  had  all  along  considered  the  doctor  gener- 


228  THE  LANDRAYS 

ally  offencive;  furthermore  he  thought  the  whole  affair  scandalous 
and  wholly,  without  justification.  But  he  resented  it  most  on  Vir- 
ginia's account;  she  would  have  to  take  up  the  burden  of  Anna's 
neglected  duties  in  the  case  of  little  Stephen;  and  she  already  had 
Jane  and  Jane's  baby  on  her  hands;  cares  of  his  providing,  that  were 
now  a  misery  to  him  to  think  of. 

Presently  Sam  West  drove  up  from  the  barn  and  hitched  his  team. 
The  three  men  heard  him  open  the  front  door  and  mount  the  stairs. 
He  had  gone  for  Anna's  trunks. 

Benson  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief  and  quitted  his  chair  with  alacrity: 
the  doctor  and  his  brother  rose,  too. 

"Can  I  offer  you  a  seat  with  us  into  town?"  asked  the  former, 
•civilly  turning  to  Benson. 

"No,  I  thank  you,  I  have  my  own  horse  and  cart  here." 

The  doctor  extended  his  hand. 

"Good-bye,  sir,"  he  said  coldly,  and  Benson  touched  the  tips  of 
the  three  nerveless  fingers  he  had  given  him. 

"Good-bye,"  said  the  lawyer. 

"You  will  drive  in  with  us,  Andrew?"  and  the  doctor  turned  to 
his  brother. 

"Yes,  indeed,  my  dear  John;  I  must  see  the  last  of  you  and  Anna," 
and  he  patted  the  missionary  affectionately  on  the  arm,  who  now 
turned  from  him  abruptly  and  moved  toward  the  door  opening  into 
the  hall. 

On  the  stairs  above,  Anna,  and  Virginia,  and  Jane  appeared.  Anna 
was  smiling  radiantly,  though  there  were  still  traces  of  tears  on  her 
cheeks,  for  she  had  just  parted  from  little  Stephen.  Virginia,  who  was 
watching  her,  knew  that  no  deep  nor  stable  emotion  could  long  pos- 
.sess  her  light  nature;  and  she  felt  her  own  heart  fill  with  tenderness 
for  the  child. 

Benson,  roused  out  of  the  apathy,  in  which  he  had  passed  the  last 
hour,  to  something  like  brightness,  said: 

"I  wonder  when  we  shall  see  you  again,  Mrs.  Stillman  ?  Those 
heathen  over  in  India  are  to  be  congratulated." 

"Confess  you  are  not  sorry  to  see  the  last  of  me!"  said  Anna,  giv- 
ing him  her  hand. 

"I  shall  confess  nothing  of  the  kind,"  he  assured  her. 

"Those  are  your  civilities,  sir  —  I  know  what  they  are  worth,  and 
I  am  not  misled.  I  expect  I  have  been  a  great  care  to  you;"  she  smiled 
•up  brightly  into  his  face.  "But  now  that  I  am  going  away  you  must 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SEVEN  229 

forgive  me,  you  really  must;  for  I  want  to  feel  that  I  am  leaving 
only  friends  behind." 

Imperceptibly  the  doctor  had  edged  her  toward  the  door  while 
she  spoke,  and  through  the  door,  and  out  on  to  the  porch;  and  now 
she  was  standing  at  the  head  of  the  steps  leading  down  to  the  path 
where  Sam  West  waited  at  the  horses'  heads.  She  turned  with  a  little 
smothered  cry  of  dismay  to  throw  her  arms  about  Virginia  for  the 

"Be  good  to  him!"  she  whispered.  "Oh,  I  know  you  will!"  she 
added  in  the  same  breath,  and  then  the  doctor  urged  her  gently  down 
the  steps.  From  the  door  of  the  carriage  she  turned  again,  quite 
tremulous  in  her  grief;  but  Virginia  had  disappeared,  and  there  was 
only  Jane  and  Benson. 

"Good-bye!"  cried  Anna,  "good-bye,  and  God  bless  you  all! 
"Good-bye!"  they  called  back,  and  then  the  doctor  pushing  his 
brother  before  him,  mounted  stiffly  to  his  seat  and  closed  the  door; 
Sam  touched  his  horses  lightly  with  his  whip,  and  the  carnage  rolled 
down  the  lane,  and  was  soon  out  of  sight  on  its  road  to  Benson. 

"They  are  gone!"  said  the  lawyer  at  last,  withdrawing  his  eyes 
from  the  spot  where  the  carriage  had  last  been  visible  through  the 
trees  that  overhung  the  road.  "We  Americans  are  becoming  a  dread- 
fully diffuse  people." 

Jane  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 

"He  must  be  a  very  good  man  to  do  all  he  does  do  for  people  who 
don't  appreciate  it,"  she  suggested. 

"He  is!"  said  the  lawyer.  "No  one  but  a  very  good  man  would  risk 
being  so  excessively  unpleasant." 

"You  don't  like  him,"  said  Jane;  "but  you  think  he  will  be  good 
to  her;  do  say  that." 

"Oh,  he's  probably  a  man  of  high  domestic  virtues.  Yes,  he  11  b 
good  to  hei,  in  his  way."  They  were  silent  for  a  moment   and  then 
Benson  asked:  "How  about  little  Stephen;  how  did  he  take  his  mot 

er's  going  ?"  „ 

"Poor  little  fellow!"  said  Jane.  "He  doesn't  understand  yet.  ^ 
"He  never  will!"  said  Benson.  "Mrs.  Landray  won  t  let  him. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-EIGHT 

BENSON'S  love  for  Virginia  was  the  one  unusual  thing  in  his 
otherwise  ordinary  life.  It  gave  him  the  joy  of  a  great  hope; 
and  it  held  the  fear  of  a  proportionate  disappointment.  Time 
had  brought  only  the  most  superficial  changes  in  their  relation;  she 
was  as  far  removed  from  him,  as  unapproachable,  as  she  had  ever 
been;  speech  was  still  a  great  distance  off.  But  his  silent  worship  had 
only  grown  more  devout;  with  the  passing  of  time  it  had  become  a 
dreamy  ecstasy  in  which  he  dwelt  in  the  splendid  solitude  of  his  per- 
fect fancy. 

Virginia  treated  him  with  charming  friendliness,  but  beyond  this 
he  dared  not  push  his  fortunes;  he  must  have  infinite  patience,  infinite 
tact.  Of  the  remote  and  greater  possibilities  of  their  friendship  she 
had  never  been  conscious,  because  to  her  these  possibilities  could  not 
exist.  She  had  forgotten  nothing,  could  forget  nothing,  that  had 
made  up  the  sum  and  substance  of  her  love  for  Stephen  Landray. 
Benson  in  seeking  to  understand  her  always  came  back  to  this, 
time  had  not  changed  her  here;  and  he  appreciated  that  love  might 
be  a  much  greater  thing,  more  sacred  and  more  binding  than  the 
mere  day  to  day  evidences  of  its  existence  indicated.  He  wondered 
not  a  little  what  manner  of  man  Stephen  Landray  had  really  been. 
He  had  known  him  only  as  a  kindly  tolerant  fellow  of  apparently  no 
unusual  brilliancy,  and  possessing  apparently  no  unusual  delicacy 
of  mind  or  feeling;  who  had  always  been  too  generous  in  his  busi- 
ness dealings,  with  a  taste,  inborn  and  not  to  be  eradicated,  for  a 
manner  of  life  beyond  his  means;  yet  having  an  excellent  moral  cour- 
age which  had  always  enabled  him  to  speak  his  mind  and  hold  his 
own  opinions  whether  they  were  popular  or  not.  Benson  was  aware 
that  he  himself  had  much  of  the  close-mouthed  conservatism  of 
middle-class  prosperity.  His  own  convictions  he  held  too  tightly,  but 
defended  loosely,  as  if  he  were  more  than  half  ashamed  of  them. 

Virginia  rarely  mentioned  the  dead  man  now.  When  she  did,  it 

230 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-EIGHT  231 

was  without  visible  emotion  beyond  a  certain  tenderness  that  un- 
consciously stole  into  her  voice  and  manner.  In  the  face  of  her  un- 
ending, unyielding  devotion  to  Stephen's  memory,  Benson  now  and 
again  gave  way  to  a  despair  that  was  not  far  from  abject  in  its  hope- 
lessness; and  yet  quite  apart  from  his  selfish  interest  in  a  1  that 
affected  her,  this  devotion  of  hers  was  most  pathetic  to  him.  Was  she 
going  to  waste  her  splendid  youth  in  that  great  house  out  there  be- 
yond the  town,  away  from  people,  and  apart  from  all  that  was  sup- 
posed to  make  living  worth  while  ?  It  would  have  hurt  him  to  have 
thought  of  her  as  he  did  of  Anna;  but  she  was  the  younger,  and  her 
beauty  was  only  now  reaching  the  fullness  of  its  perfection  and  after  a 
decent  period  had  elapsed,  then  surely  she  might  think  of  taking  up 
life  again.  No  worldly  advantage  could  ever  have  any  weight  with 
her;  but  he  knew  that  he  was,  as  he  was  reputed  to  be   the  richest 
man  in  Benson,  that  he  had  much  to  offer  her,  a  way  of  life  entirely 
suited  to  her  tastes  and  traditions.  He  thought  of  these  things  won- 
dering if  she  could  ever  be  brought  to  comprehend  the  value  of  all  he 
had  to  give.  In  the  absence  of  any  closer  tie  he  comforted  himself 
with  the  thought  that  it  was  much  gained  to  be  her  friend;  yet  on  each 
occasion  when  they  met,  he  sought  to  discover  in  her  face  that  altered 
look  which  would  bid  him  speak;  but  the  change  never  came,  and  in 
her  dark  eyes  there  rested  always  the  shadow  of  her  sorrow. 

He  was  still  boy  enough  to  wish  that  he  might  do  some  gal  ant 
deed,  make  some  great  heroic  sacrifice  for  her  sake,  and  so,  splen- 
didly, tell  his  love;  but  he  knew  that  such  opportunities  were  rare  in 
the  practical  age  into  which  he  had  been  born.  He  owned  almost  sad- 
ly that  even  had  they  existed,  he  was  gifted  with  a  thrifty  shrewdness 
that  would  probably  have  stood  in  his  way  No,  hu  '  Par™  /^ 
brilliant.  By  no  stretch  of  imagination  could  he  see  himself  the 
of  a  spectacular  achievement  of  any  sort. 

He  longed  to  be  a  poet  with  no  theme  but  her   her  beauty  her 
charm,  and  his  love.  But  this  wish  was  so  absurd,  that  he  found  him- 


variety  of  cases,  these  thoughts  filled  his  mind;  they  followed  him 
ou  mo  the  street  when  the  cracked  town  bell  summoned  him  to  the 
dingT  court-room,  whither  he  walked  with  much  dehberat.on  and 
dignity;  for  he  was  aware  that  his  youth,  though  beginning  to  be 


232  THE  LANDRAYS 

largely  a  matter  of  appearance  only,  was  still  not  exactly  in  his 
favour. 

He  sometimes  wondered  what  his  clients  —  serious  minded  people 
for  the  most  part,  who  were  suing  for  judgments  on  bad  debts,  or 
involved  in  squabbles  over  line  fences,  or  had  foolishly  acquired  or 
rashly  bestowed  black  eyes  and  broken  noses  —  would  have  thought, 
if  they  could  have  known  that  under  the  mask  of  his  professional 
interest  in  their  affairs,  he  cherished  such  an  array  of  dreams. 

So  he  lived  this  double  existence;  Benson  the  lawyer,  and  Benson 
the  lover,  who  dwelt  removed  and  remote  in  a  secret  ecstasy  all  his 
own,  and  of  which  no  man  knew  or  guessed.  It  was  the  season  of  a 
generous  enthusiasm,  when  he  strove  manfully  toward  a  greater 
measure  of  worth,  for  his  were  the  ideals  that  no  man  attains  to  but 
only  desires;  and  only  desires  when  he  is  young  and  generous;  and 
this  season,  saw  the  passing  of  another  season  beyond  the  windows 
of  his  quiet  house.  The  leaves  on  the  maples,  crimsoned  at  the  touch 
of  frost,  faded  and  fell,  clogging  the  open  gutters  with  their  faded 
heaps;  the  snow  lay  two  feet  on  the  level,  and  then  came  the  period 
of  frost  and  thaw;  of  melting  snow  and  ice;  and  the  imperceptible 
change  from  stagnation  to  life;  and  it  was  spring,  and  the  maples 
were  in  bud  again. 

All  this  while  he  managed  to  be  of  use  to  Virginia  in  many  ways. 
He  watched  over  her  interests  with  rare  good  judgment,  for  he  was 
determined  that  no  advantage  should  be  taken  of  her.  He  found  a 
tenant  for  the  farm  — Trent,  whom  Stephen  had  left  in  possession, 
having  proved  himself  unworthy  after  the  first  year  or  two  —  and 
over  this  tenant  he  held  a  tight  rein;  and  many  were  the  trips  he 
made  to  the  farm  to  see  that  he  failed  in  no  part  of  his  bargain.  Then 
there  was  the  mill,  which  he  had  rented  on  very  desirable  terms  to  a 
man  by  the  name  of  Crawford,  who  came  from  a  distance,  and  had 
some  little  capital  and  considerable  energy. 

He  supposed,  though  she  gave  no  sign,  that  he  could  interpret  in 
support  of  his  opinion,  that  there  was  much  self-denial  in  the  life 
that  circumstances  forced  upon  her.  It  was  the  same  thing,  without 
break  or  interruption,  day  after  day,  and  month  after  month.  Once, 
and  the  time  was  of  course,  well  within  his  memory,  the  Landray 
home  had  been  famous  for  its  hospitality;  but  Virginia  had  neither 
the  inclination  nor  the  means  to  continue  this;  indeed  her  few  friends 
in  the  town  itself  gradually  dropped  away,  and  her  interests  narrowed 
to  the  immediate  members  of  her  own  household,  who  furnished  her 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-EIGHT  233 

with  something  that  stood  for  occupation.  Jane's  baby  developed  a 
variety  of  inconsequential  ills  such  as  babies  usually  develop,  but  of 
which  Virginia  was  always  inclined  to  take  an  extreme  view  as  of 
potentially  tragic  possibilities.  She  had  also  been  directing  little 
Stephen's  studies  for  some  time;  though  she  had  assumed  this  re- 
sponsibility with  serious  misgivings  as  to  her  fitness  for  such  a  task, 
since  her  own  education  was  of  the  simple  sort  such  as  usually  fell  to 
the  lot  of  girls  at  that  period,  and  went  no  further  than  a  fair  use  of 
the  English  language,  a  treacherous  acquaintance  with  figures,  and 
a  very  little  French,  which  she  had  forgotten,  she  found,  with  a 
thoroughness  that  was  quite  disproportionate  to  so  vague  a  knowl- 
edge as  this  had  been  at  its  best. 

From  Anna  she  heard  occasionally.  Her  letters  came  at  irregular 
intervals,  great  bulky  packages  filled  with  agreeably  written  descrip- 
tions of  the  places  she  was  seeing.  These,  Virginia  sometimes  loaned 
the  lawyer  to  read;  as  she  took  it  for  granted  that  he  had  the  same 
interest  in  Anna  that  he  had  in  her. 

The  summer  that  followed  Anna's  marriage  passed;  and  the  win- 
ter that  succeeded  it;  and  spring  came  again,  and  found  Benson  still 
committed  to  a  self-denying  silence.  It  was  one  of  the  first  warm  days 
of  early  summer  and  Virginia  had  sent  for  him;  her  note  had  been  left 
by  the  farm  tenant  and  the  lawyer  had  discovered  it  on  his  desk  when 
he  went  home  to  dinner  after  a  morning  spent  in  court,  and  by  the 
middle  of  the  afternoon  he  was  jogging  over  the  pleasant  country 
road  in  the  direction  of  the  farm. 

"It's  about  Stephen,"  said  Virginia,  when  they  were  seated  in  the 
library.  "I  must  begin  to  think  of  his  future.  I  am  thinking  seriously 
of  sending  him  away  to  school!" 

"But  why  burden  yourself,  Mrs.  Landray?  There  is  the  public 
school  —  temporarily,"  he  added  hastily,  for  he  detected  a  look  of 
quick  resentment. 

"His  father  and  uncle  were  college-bred  men,  Mr.  Benson,  and  J 
can't  bear  to  think  that  his  opportunities  are  to  be  limited  in  a  way 
their's  were  not!"  And,  sadly,  "He  will  have  need  of  every  advant- 
age." 

"Not  limited,  except  in  the  immediate  present,"  he  made  haste  to 
say;  "and  don't  you  see,  to  send  him  East  to  some  preparatory 
school  would  be  a  great  trial  to  you  ?  Might  it  not  be  dangerous  as 
well  ?  He  might  form  undesirable  associations,  for  instance.' 
"For  that  reason,  perhaps,  I  should  prefer  Dr.  Long's  school! 


234  THE  LANDRAYS 

But  Benson  was  opposed  to  this  purpose  to  which  she  was  evi- 
dently only  too  willing  to  devote  a  part  of  her  slender  income.  Stephen 
if  he  were  properly  ambitious,  would  do  very  well  in  the  public 
schools. 

"  I  don't  wish  to  urge  my  opinion,"  he  said  apologetically. 

"Tell  me,  Mr.  Benson,  what  I  really  have  to  look  forward  to  in 
the  way  of  money;  I  have  never  quite  understood." 

"Well,  there  is  the  income  from  the  farm,  Mrs.  Landray,  and  the 
rent  from  the  mill;  of  course,  part  of  this  is  absorbed  by  the  interest 
you  are  paying." 

Virginia  gazed  at  him  thoughtfully. 

"Of  course,"  she  said  slowly,  considering  the  question,  "the  inter- 
est on  the  money  that  has  been  borrowed  must  be  paid,  and  the 
money,  too.  Am  I  extravagant,  do  you  think  I  am  ?" 

"Oh,  no!"  and  he  smiled  at  the  idea.  "But  you  are  inclined  to  be 
too  generous  where  others  are  concerned." 

"Please  tell  me  just  what  I  owe  ?" 

"In  the  first  place,  part  of  the  debt  is  Stephen's." 

"Poor  little  fellow!  And  he  is  to  begin  life  burdened  by  debt!  How 
much  do  we  owe,  Mr.  Benson  ?" 

"The  estate  owes  nine  thousand  dollars." 

"It's  a  very  large  sum,  I  don't  know  that  I  ever  understood 
exactly  how  much  it  was  before." 

"After  all  my  explanations?"  he  said  reproachfully. 

"How  much  is  the  interest?" 

"A  trifle  over  six  hundred  dollars." 

"And  how  much  is  the  income  ?" 

"Well,  there  are  the  earnings  from  the  farm;  last  year,  in  spite  of 
a  partial  failure  of  the  season,  your  share  sold  for  five  hundred  dol- 
lars; and  of  course  your  actual  expenses  here  are  small;  the  rent  from 
the  mill  is  six  hundred  and  fifty.  Then  there  is  the  rent  of  the  farm 
north  of  town,  which  is  one  hundred  and  fifty  more.  It  figures  up 
thirteen  hundred  dollars,  which  leaves  you  clear  something  over  six 
hundred  dollars." 

"That  doesn't  seem  so  bad,  does  it?"  she  said  hopefully,  but  she 
added  quickly,  "I  forgot,  the  debt  itself  will  have  to  be  paid  even- 
tually." And  her  face  fell. 

"I  wouldn't  worry  about  that  yet."  And  he  explained  that  the  mill, 
and  water  rights,  constituted  such  excellent  security  that  Mr.  Stark 
had  signified  his  willingness  to  wait  her  pleasure  in  the  matter. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-EIGHT  235 

"I  don't  know  what  I  would  do  without  your  help  and  advice!" 
said  Virginia,  when  he  had  finished. 

He  moved  his  hand  in  disparagement  of  this. 

"Have  I  made  it  quite  plain  to  you  ?"  he  asked,with  grave  kindness. 

"Yes,  I  think  so,  but  we  haven't  settled  yet  how  I  am  to  send 
Stephen  to  school,  even  to  Dr.  Long's  academy." 

"We  might  very  easily  induce  Mr.  Stark  to  advance  more  money!" 
he  ventured  tentatively,  but  Virginia  shook  her  head. 

"No,  I  am  afraid  of  debt;  and  it  is  not  only  my  own  means,  it  is 
Stephen's  start  in  life  that  would  be  involved.  I  must  exercise  a 
greater  economy." 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Landray,  that  is  quite  out  of  the  question,  unless 
you  deny  yourself  in  ways  I  cannot  even  bear  to  think  of!" 

Virginia  did  not  seem  to  hear  him,  and  the  tone  that  had  uncon- 
sciously crept  into  his  voice,  escaped  her  notice.  He  could  only  guess 
at  the  needless  self-denials  she  might  practice,  inspired  by  her  love 
and  sense  of  duty!  She  was  too  fine  for  that  sort  of  thing;  she  had 
always  seemed  to  him  to  adorn  the  easy  circumstances  for  which  the 
Landrays  had  been  famous.  It  had  not  been  great  wealth,  perhaps, 
but  in  that  new  country  it  had  been  riches;  since  relatively,  little 
money  purchased  so  much. 

"If  you  will  allow  me"  —  he  hesitated,  and  then  continued 
— "  to  advance  what  money  you  need,  it  will  give  me  the  greatest 
pleasure." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  she  said;  it  was  plain  she  was  rather  sur- 
prised at  the  offer. 

"I  don't  mean  that  you  are  to  sign  any  more  notes,"  he  hastily 
explained;  "but  it  hurts  me  to  think  that  you  may  be  limited  in  any 
way.  It  can  stand  as  a  personal  debt  that  some  day  you  will  repay 
when  the  other  matters  have  been  settled.  I  assure  you  it  will  give  me 
great  pleasure  to  aid  you,"  he  finished  warmly,  but  Virginia  turned 
to  him  with  the  question: 

"Mr.  Benson,  please  tell  me  one  thing,  when  you  went  West  for 
me,  who  bore  that  expense  ?  Did  you  ?" 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Landray;"  but  the  admission  was  made  with  reluc- 
tance. 

"It  never  occurred  to  me  until  this  moment  that  that  was  possible! 
It  has  not  been  returned  to  you  ? " 

"But  it  has  not  been  my  wish  that  it  should  be,"  he  rejoined 

quickly. — 


236  THE  LANDRAYS 

"I  wish  you  had  told  me  of  this  before!"  she  continued  a  little 
reproachfully. 

"Why?"  he  asked. 

"It  might  have  been  easier." 

"Nonsense,  Mrs.  Landray!  To  tell  you  the  truth  I  had  forgotten 
all  about  it." 

"But  when  the  estate  was  settled,  should  it  not  have  gone  in  with 
the  other  claims  ? " 

"It's  not  a  debt  in  that  sense;  please  don't  place  me  in  the  position 
of  a  creditor!" 

Virginia  wished  to  do  him  full  justice,  yet  she  rather  resented  that 
she  had  not  known  of  this  before.  His  silence  was  a  mistaken  kind- 
ness; for  had  he  spoken  sooner,  Anna  would  have  met  her  share  of 
this  debt.  With  the  feeling  she  had  of  the  melting  away  of  the  for- 
tune, this  even  was  a  matter  of  some  moment.  Benson,  watching  her 
narrowly,  conjectured  much  of  what  was  passing  in  her  mind. 

"Let  us  dismiss  the  whole  matter!"  he  said.  "I  wish  I  had  not 
told  you.  It  is  quite  unimportant." 

"I  fear  I  have  never  quite  appreciated  the  full  extent  of  your  kind- 
ness." she  said,  "nor  how  fond  you  were  of  Stephen,  your  friend- 
ship for  him.  I  must  have  seemed  very  unreasonable  to  you  in  many 
ways,  at  first." 

Benson  was  silent.  He  feared  to  speak.  He  felt  he  could  not  con- 
tinue in  the  false  position  in  which  she  was  placing  him. 

"You  will  let  me  return  what  you  have  expended,"  Virginia  con- 
tinued. 

"Do  you  find  the  obligation  so  irksome  ?"  he  asked,  with  a  touch 
of  exasperation  in  his  tone. 

"Any  obligation  must  be  irksome  when  one  is  so  uncertain  as  to 
how  it  is  to  be  met!" 

"But  you  see  that  it  has  not  worried  me!" 

"You  are  too  kind  to  let  it,  too  generous  in  your  feeling  — 

"No,"  he  said,  with  sudden  deliberation,  "I  am  not  so  generous 
as  you  think.  I  wanted  you  to  know  that  I  was  your  friend.  As  your 
friend,  all  that  I  could  do  was  a  privilege;  I  gained  more  than  I 
gave." 

Instinctively  she  drew  back  at  the  turn  the  conversation  had 
taken.  Her  glance  as  it  sought  his  face,  lost  something  of  its  former 
frankness,  but  she  had  not  been  alarmed  by  anything  he  had  said, 
for  his  meaning  was  still  remote  from  his  words;  and  she  was  so  un- 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-EIGHT  237 

suspicious  of  him,  had  come  so  to  regard  him  only  as  her  dead  hus- 
band's friend;  and  measured  by  the  standard  set  by  her  own  love,  it 
was  not  strange  that  Stephen  should  have  inspired  such  a  friendship, 
or  that  it  should  extend  in  some  lesser  degree  even  to  her  ;  indeed, 
it  was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world. 

But  Benson  had  noted  the  subtle  alteration  in  her  manner,  no 
change  there  ever  escaped  him;  he  felt  that  he  had  betrayed  his 
secret. 

"Friendship  has  its  limitations,  that  is  the  unfortunate  thing 
about  it.  It  is  not  like  —  not  like  other  things,"  he  finished  abruptly. 

She  looked  up  quickly  into  his  face;  and  what  she  saw  there, 
caused  her  steady  glance  to  waver.  Her  eyes  fell.  Perhaps  she  had 
not  understood;  perhaps  —  but  her  cheeks  coloured,  not  with  re- 
sentment, but  with  shame,  at  the  thought  that  had  laid  hold  of  her. 
She  rose  from  her  chair,  with  all  that  dignity  of  manner  in  the  pres- 
ence of  which  he  was  wont  to  stand  abashed  and  silent. 

"I  have  offended  you!"  he  said.  "Please  let  me  explain!" 

"There  is  nothing  to  explain,  you  only  meant  to  be  kind,  to 
spare  me  —  " 

"Oh,  not  that!"  he  cried,  with  sudden  recklessness.  "That  shall 
be  as  you  wish  —  I  had  no  right  to  argue  the  point  with  you!" 

She  made  a  step  toward  the  door. 

"Please!"  he  cried,  "Mrs.  Landray,  you  must  let  me  speak!" 

She  turned  on  him  swiftly;  her  eyes  wide  with  wonder  at  the 
change  that  had  come  over  him. 

There  was  dead  silence  in  the  room. 

Now  that  he  had  spoken,  now  that  circumstances  had  led  him  on 
until  there  was  no  turning  back,  he  could  have  bitten  off  his  tongue 
that  had  betrayed  him. 

What  she  felt  he  could  only  guess;  but  it  was  clearly  none  of  those 
emotions  he  might  have  expected  to  arouse.  It  was  not  embarrass- 
ment, it  was  not  dismay;  the  look  on  her  face  was  one  of  angry 
wonder. 

He  felt  his  cheeks  pale  under  the  steady  glance  with  which  she 
regarded  him,  and  he  was  aware  of  a  swift  sense  of  pity  for  himself. 
Had  he  waited  and  struggled  for  this!  After  the  years  of  patient 
devotion  he  had  rendered  her,  was  she  so  unmoved  in  the  presence 
of  his  love;  did  it  mean  so  little  to  her! 

"You  know  it  now!"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

Even  as  he  spoke,  he  was  conscious  that  the  angry  wonder  in  her 


238  THE  LANDRAYS 

eyes  changed  to  a  look  that  was  almost  one  of  contempt;  and  the 
colour  surged  back  into  his  face,  until  his  cheeks  burned  with  it. 
But  her  quite  evident  scorn  of  him  served  to  rouse  him.  He  met  her 
glance  with  a  look  of  quick  resentment  that  she  understood,  and 
liked  him  none  the  less  that  he  had  been  so  ready  to  summon  it. 

"I  think  you  are  mistaken,  Mr.  Benson,  you  don't  really  wish  me 
to  stay.  I'd  better  go."  She  spoke  coldly,  but  with  a  certain  latent 
pity  in  her  tone. 

"Yes,"  he  said  doggedly,  "I  do  wish  you  to  remain,  I  do  wish 
to  speak  to  you!  I  have  waited,  I  have  hoped  the  time  would  come 
when  I  might  —  : 

"It  is  not  now.  It  will  never  come,"  she  said  slowly.  "You  have 
been  very  good,  always  —  I  am  grateful  to  you.  Be  content  with  that; 
don't  force  me  to  say  more  than  this,  please,  for  I  cannot  listen  to 
you  with  patience." 

"No,  that  won't  suffice!"  he  persisted,  roused  by  something  in 
her  manner  to  a  stubborn  determination  to  be  heard,  no  matter  what 
the  consequences.  "I  haven't  struggled  to  win  your  gratitude.  That 
won't  suffice,  unless  it  leads  to  something  else." 

"What  more  have  you  expected  ?"  she  asked  quietly.  But  he  was 
not  misled  by  her  restraint. 

"What  does  a  man  expect  when  his  heart  has  gone  out  of  his 
keeping  —  " 

"Don't!"  she  cried  quickly,  putting  up  her  hands  as  though  to 
ward  off  something.  "Don't!  How  can  you!" 

"Why  not  ?"  he  asked.  "Every  man  says  it  sooner  or  later  to  some 
woman;  and  every  woman  hears  it  sooner  or  later  from  the  lips  of 
some  man!" 

"You  must  not!"  she  repeated. 

"I  have  waited,  I  have  tried  to  be  patient;  don't  give  me  your 
answer  now!  If  it  is  no,  it  will  leave  me  nothing!  I  have  lived  and 
struggled  for  this  day  ;  that  I  might  tell  you  that  I  love  you!  You 
may  not  be  ready  to  hear  it  —  I  did  not  intend  to  speak;  nothing 
could  have  been  further  from  my  purpose  ten  minutes  ago;  but  I 
have  spoken,  and  you  know  that  I  love  you.  This  love  seems  to  go 
back  to  the  very  beginnings  of  my  life  —  I  don't  want  to  think  of  a 
time  when  I  did  not  love  you;  it  seems  impossible  to  even  imagine 
such  a  time,  as  impossible  as  to  imagine  a  future  when  I  shall 
have  ceased  to  love  you!  You  may  not  value  my  love,  but  it  is  as  much 
yours  as  any  other  possession  you  have  in  the  world!" 


CHAFFER  TWENTY-EIGHT  239 

Her  resentment  toward  him  was  slowly  taking  a  definite  shape  in 
her  mind,  she  was  seeing  the  fullest  reason  for  it.  She  had  counted 
him  her  friend,  generously  disinterested  and  wholly  self-forgetful; 
she  felt  he  had  advanced  under  the  cloak  of  friendship  for  Stephen, 
until  he  dared  to  speak  of  love  to  her.  To  her!  To  the  widow  of  the 
man  for  whom  he  had  professed  such  devotion!  Yet  she  parted  from 
her  ideal  of  him  with  a  sense  of  bitter  personal  loss,  as  from  a  living 
presence  on  which  she  had  come  wholly  to  rely.  If  she  could  not 
trust  him,  whom  could  she  trust!  He  dwindled  in  all  the  generous 
goodness  with  which  she  had  unconsciously  invested  him,  to  con- 
temptible littleness  and  petty  self-seeking. 

His  patient  kindness,  his  innumerable  sacrifices  of  time  and  con- 
venience had  been  but  the  stepping  stones  toward  this  moment, 
when  he  dared  to  tell  her  that  he  loved  her!  Her  anger  flamed  in  her 
face;  but  when  she  spoke  she  still  maintained  the  control  which  she 
had  put  upon  herself  from  the  start. 

"I  wish  that  you  had  allowed  me  to  leave  you  before  you  said 
what  you  have.  Of  course  it  would  have  made  no  difference  in  the 
opinion  I  had  formed  of  you,  but  I  should  not  have  been  forced  to 
speak  of  it." 

He  would  have  said  that  in  his  fancy  he  had  already  lived  through 
the  possibilities  of  this  moment;  but  he  had  never  quite  conceived  it 
possible  that  she  could  treat  him  with  such  cold  scorn.  In  his  bitter- 
ness he  could  only  ask  himself  how  had  he  failed  so  utterly.  At  her 
words,  however,  and  the  tone  in  which  she  had  spoken  them,  his  self- 
respect  came  to  his  rescue. 

"You  need  not  say  anything  that  you  may  regret  later  on;  that  is 
quite  unnecessary,  for  I  think  I  know  just  how  you  feel  toward  me," 
he  said  gently. 

She  knit  her  brows  in  an  angry  frown,  but  his  words  impressed  her, 
and  her  manner  became  more  one  of  resentful  kindness.  After  all  she 
had  no  wish  to  hurt  him;  only  he  must  understand  the  extent  of  his 
enormity,  for  in  her  jealous  love  for  Stephen  Landray  it  was  nothing 
else. 

"Have  I  ever  said  anything,  has  there  ever  been  in  my  manner 
toward  you,  anything  that  could  lead  you  to  think  I  could  so  far 
forget  myself  as  to  wish  to  hear  what  you  have  just  told  me,  from 
the  lips  of  any  living  man  ?" 

"No,"  he  said,  "there  has  not  been;  yet  —  " 

"If  I  have  been  at  fault  you  must  tell  me.  I  will  hear  you  without 


240  THE  LANDRAYS 

offence;  then  I  can  the  sooner  forgive  you  for  the  way  in  which  you 
have  misjudged  me,  I  should  almost  be  glad  to  think  that  in  some 
way  I  had  been  to  blame!" 

"No,"  he  answered,  "I  have  known  always  that  you  would  not 
care  to  hear  this;  that  it  would  only  hurt  you." 

"Then  why  have  you  told  me  ?"  she  demanded. 

"The  reason  was  in  my  words  —  because  I  love  you!"  he  said.  "I 
hoped  that  the  time  might  come  —  " 

"Never!"  she  cried,  with  fierce  insistence.  "Never!  It  can  never 
come!" 

"Even  so;  that  I  should  love  you  was  inevitable,  you  might  have 
foreseen  that!  How  could  I  meet  you  day  after  day,  be  near  you,  be 
your  friend,  and  not  come  to  love  you!  I  only  wonder  that  I  was  able 
to  hold  my  peace  so  long  as  I  did!" 

"Then  I  was  not  at  fault,  none  of  the  blame  was  mine  ?" 

"None,"  he  assured  her;  but  he  was  white  to  the  lips. 

"Then  if  I  am  not  at  fault  I  shall  never  forgive  you!"  There  was 
a  ring  of  triumph  in  her  tone.  She  had  wished  his  own  words  to  vindi- 
cate her. 

"Perhaps  you  may.  It  may  even  come  to  forgiveness,"  he  said. 

"No,  I  shall  never  forget  the  advantage  you  have  taken!" 

"I  have  paid  you  the  highest  compliment  I  could,"  he  said  stead- 
ily. She  made  him  a  scornful  gesture,  and  though  his  cheeks  burnt,  he 
went  on.  "That  I  have  loved  you,  that  I  do  love  you,  is  my  right; 
my  own  unworthiness,  of  which  you  cannot  be  more  aware  than  I 
am,  has  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

Understanding  her  as  he  did,  he  fully  realized  her  sense  of  out- 
raged decency;  he  could  think  of  it  as  nothing  else.  If  he  had  loved 
her  less,  if  he  had  parted  from  any  portion  of  his  high  esteem  and 
reverence  for  her,  he  would  have  urged  his  suit,  he  would  have 
appealed  to  her  pity,  her  generosity,  and  above  all  he  would  have 
urged  the  depth  and  constancy  of  his  devotion;  but  he  felt  he  could 
make  no  such  appeal  to  her;  the  most  he  could  hope  was  that  when 
her  anger  against  him  had  somewhat  abated,  she  would  see  that  he 
had  taken  no  advantage  of  her;  and  that  she  would  respect  him  for 
the  restraint  he  had  until  now  put  upon  himself.  He  knew  her  better 
than  to  suppose  she  would  ever  feel  flattered  by  the  declaration  he 
had  made.  Whatever  her  secret  vanities  were,  and  he  supposed 
they  existed,  they  were  not  of  that  strictly  feminine  character  that 
could  pardon  what  she  had  first  deemed  an  offence,  because  later  she 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-EIGHT  241 

found  this  very  offence  included  a  compliment;  and  he  was  quite 
certain  she  would  never  look  back  to  that  moment  with  any  feelin<r 
even  remotely  approaching  satisfaction.  The  most  he  dared  to  hope 
for  was  that  they  might  gradually  return  to  their  former  relation, 
where  he  could  begin  again  with  tireless  patience  to  recover  the 
ground  he  had  foolishly  lost,  since  he  had  no  thought  of  giving  her 
up;  that  never  occurred  to  him  as  possible.  She  had  become  as 
necessary  to  him  as  the  very  air  he  breathed.  He  knew  that  for  the 
past  years  he  had  been  living  for  these  interviews  with  her,  which  had 
meant  so  much  to  him,  while  they  had  meant  nothing  to  her.  At  the 
thought  that  they  might  be  denied  him  in  the  future  he  turned  sick 
at  heart;  the  possibilities  of  such  a  thing  seemed  to  sweep  away  the 
whole  purpose  of  existence,  to  rob  him  in  a  twinkling  of  all  that 
made  his  life  worth  while.  He  was  sick  with  the  dull  ache  that  filled 
his  heart.  It  was  more  than  the  mental  appreciation  of  an  impending 
catastrophe;  it  was  a  definite  physical  anguish.  But  the  hope  that 
had  meant  so  much  to  him  in  the  past,  came  to  his  rescue  again. 
What  did  it  matter  if  he  waited  years  merely  for  her  tardy  forgive- 
ness, the  whole  of  his  life  belonged  to  her!  His  tenderness  an<f  pa- 
tience should  be  infinite;  and  the  time  must  surely  come  when  the 
last  vestige  of  her  anger  would  have  faded  from  her  heart,  and  they 
could  begin  anew.  He  told  himself  that  this  was  the  one  great 
emotion  he  should  know.  But  for  her,  he  lived  in  a  world  of  dull 
commonplace;  and  she,  whether  she  were  aware  of  it  or  not,  without 
intending  it,  had  glorified  his  life. 

In  realizing  what  his  love  meant  to  him,  he,  for  the  first  time  fully 
realized  what  her  love  for  Stephen  Landray  might  still  mean  to  her. 
He  felt  endless  compassion  for  her.  How  she  must  have  suffered, 
and  she  had  always  shown  such  courage.  It  made  her  all  the  more 
desirable  that  her  own  constancy  had  been  so  fine  and  true. 

"You  must  forgive  me!"  he  said.  "Think  that  I  forgot  myself, 
and  forget  if  you  can  what  I  have  said!" 

But  she  had  no  forgiveness  for  him;  little  things  she  might  easily 
overlook,  or  they  passed  her  by  without  being  even  noticed,  but 
this  was  a  hurt  that  only  time  could  heal.  Her  pride  was  a  stub- 
born thing,  and  it  was  her  pride,  her  very  self-respect,  that  he  had 
hurt. 

He  glanced  into  her  face  and  saw  how  far  he  was  from  forgiveness. 
In  the  telling  of  his  love  he  had  roused  her  anger  to  no  purpose;  he 
had  destroyed  the  very  thing  that  had  been  her  stay  through  all 


242  THE  LANDRAYS 

these  years,  and  there  was  nothing  left  her!  He  had  cheapened  each 
sacrifice  he  had  made  ;  for  in  her  eyes  he  had  performed  each  ser- 
vice, each  generous  act,  with  the  idea  that  it  would  help  to  win  him 
her  love;  he  felt  he  could  not  argue  with  her,  the  justice  or  the  injus- 
tice of  her  feeling  for  him,  there  was  something  fixed  and  final  in  this 
attitude  of  hers. 

"You  must  try  and  forgive  me!"  he  repeated. 

"I  shall  try,"  she  said. 

"Which  means  you  will  fail!"  he  retorted  bitterly. 

"Am  I  so  unjust?"  she  demanded  haughtily. 

"I  wish  you  might  see  it  and  feel  it  for  one  moment,  as  I  see  it 
and  feel  it!"  he  said,  with  hoarse  emotion.  "It  might  move  you  to 
mercy!" 

"You  are  asking  for  friendship  now?"  she  said. 

"Yes"  —  he  hesitated  —  "yes,  friendship." 

"Will  you  be  content  with  that  ?" 

"Can  it  ever  be  friendship  after  this?  Will  it  not  be  less  —  or 
more?" 

"Less,"  she  said. 

"I  suppose  so,"  he  admitted  dully.  "It's  a  small  matter  to  you;  but 
an  hour  ago  I  would  have  said  it  was  a  matter  of  life  and  death  to 
me!  You  suffered  —  you  loved!" 

"You  have  no  right  to  speak  of  it!"  she  cried.  "Because  I  have 
trusted  you  —  "  She  broke  off  abruptly. 

"And  I  suppose  you  think  I  have  taken  advantage  of  your  trust! 
I  did  not  know  until  now  —  that  is,  I  could  not  have  imagined  that 
a  man  could  so  offend  a  woman  merely  by  telling  her  that  he  loved 
her."  She  did  not  answer  him;  and  after  a  moment's  silence  he  went 
on.  "Can  you  tell  me  how  out  of  the  wreck  I  seem  to  have  made,  I 
can  preserve  some  portion  of  your  esteem  ?  In  Heaven's  name,  let  it 
be  friendship  if  it  is  nothing  more!" 

"Wait!"  she  said,  not  unkindly;  and  then  softening,  "Oh,  how 
could  you,  when  you  knew  that  I  trusted  you;  that  has  been  the 
crudest  part  of  it!" 

"It  was  so  easy,"  he  said.  "But  we  look  at  it  from  such  hopelessly 
different  points  of  view." 

"You  are  never  to  speak  to  me  of  this  again;  you  are  to  forget  what 
has  passeu  co-aay,  and  I  ;h^!l  :ry,  «*>o!  You  must  promise  me!" 

But  he  did  not  answer  her  direct;^. 

"So  you  are  going  to  impose  silence  on  me;  isn't  that  a  little  hard  ? 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-EIGHT  243 

Not,"  he  added  bitterly,  "that  I  find  myself  with  any  inclination  to 
anything  else!" 

"It  is  necessary  if  we  are  to  meet  in  the  future,"  she  Laid  quietly. 

"But  isn't  it  an  unnecessary  condition  ?"  he  persisted. 

Her  anger  toward  him  seemed  to  have  passed,  and  his  courage 
was  reviving.  He  threw  aside  his  baffling  manner  and  said  frankly: 

"I'm  more  sorry  than  I  can  say,  Mrs.  Landray;  and  you  shall  not 
find  me  unworthy  a  second  time." 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-NINE 

BENSON  carried  with  him  continually  now  a  sense  of  hurt;  and 
out  of  this  came  a  certain  subtle  change  in  the  very  fibre  of 
his  love  itself.  He  lost  something  of  the  spirit  of  worship,  he 
seemed  to  be  struggling  for  dominance.  The  reserve  of  his  former 
attitude  toward  Virginia  was  lost.  Once  he  had  hoped  to  win  her  love, 
now  he  felt  that  he  must  compel  it.  He  always  came  back  to  the  one 
rankling  conviction  that  she  had  been  unjust;  that  she  had  allowed 
him  to  make  sacrifices  and  to  do  for  her  in  numberless  ways  she 
should  not  have  permitted,  unless  she  were  willing  to  accept,  not 
his  love  necessarily,  but  the  full  consequences  of  their  intimacy,  since 
it  was  perfectly  incredible  to  him  that  any  man  could  know  her  as 
he  had  known  her,  and  not  come  to  love  her;  he  came  to  blame  her 
that  she  had  not  understood. 

It  was  not  unnatural  perhaps  that  the  after  effect  upon  Virginia  of 
Benson's  declaration  was  less  pronounced  than  upon  himself.  Her 
active  anger  was  of  brief  duration  only,  and  she  soon  forgave  him  his 
unlucky  utterances  in  remembering  his  real  kindness.  She  would 
have  liked  him  to  know  this;  but  she  was  sensible  it  would  be  un- 
safe to  show  it,  and  after  all,  a  marked  but  kindly  reserve  was  only 
a  reasonable  precaution.  She  was  sorry  for  him,  and  his  restrained 
manner  in  her  presence  only  tended  to  deepen  her  feeling  of  pity; 
yet  she  considered  him  both  a  foolish  and  presumptuous  young 
man. 

In  the  first  stress  of  her  emotion  she  had  meditated  radical  and 
salutary  treatment  of  him.  She  had  even  thought  of  asking  him  to 
retire  from  the  management  of  the  estate;  but  she  had  decided  that 
this  would  be  a  needless  severity.  When  they  met  she  was  ceremoni- 
ously kind,  but  either  Jane  or  Stephen  was  present.  At  first  Benson 
had  been  rather  inclined  to  smile  at  this;  it  struck  him  as  being  such 
a  distinctly  feminine  manoeuvre;  but  the  chaperonage  when  it  was 
firmly  persisted  in,  ended  by  becoming  rather  galling;  it  argued  such 

*44 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-NINE  245 

a  lack  of  confidence,  as  well  as  a  fixed  unwillingness  to  allow  him 
to  ever  again  revert  to  the  subject  which  he  had  most  at 
heart. 

Virginia  had  found  that  even  Dr.  Long's  select  academy,  with  its 
modest  fees  for  tuition,  was  out  of  the  question;  and  was  forced  to 
send  Stephen  to  the  public  school.  At  first  Sam  West  drove  him  into 
town  each  morning,  returning  for  him  in  the  afternoon,  and  Benson 
pointed  out  to  Virginia  that  when  the  winter  actually  set  in  these 
drives  would  be  rather  a  hardship  for  the  boy,  and  proposed  that  he 
stay  with  him  when  the  weather  was  severe. 

"Oh,  no,  I  couldn't  think  of  that!"  said  Virginia.  "He  would  be 
such  a  care  to  you." 

"You  leave  that  part  of  it  to  me,  Mrs.  Landray,"  answered  the 
lawyer  good-naturedly. 

"And  I  should  miss  him  dreadfully,  and  he  might  be  home- 
sick!" 

"He  probably  will  be  at  first;  but  you'll  be  sending  him  oft  to 
college  presently;  this  will  prepare  you  both  for  that  time." 
"Well,  perhaps,  when  the  roads  get  very  bad  indeed." 
After  his  first  experience  in  town,  Stephen  carried  Virginia  such 
an  enthusiastic  account  of  his  host's  kindness  that  it  won  from  her 
a  grateful  little  letter  of  acknowledgment  and  thanks. 

From  the  start  Benson  exerted  a  certain  influence  over  the  boy 
that  was  destined  to  increase  with  his  development.  The  lawyer  was 
the  first  man  he  had  known  of  his  own  class;  all  his  short  life  had 
been  passed  among  women,  they  had  been  his  companions  and 
friends  ;  and  he  slowly  abandoned  the  reserve  with  which  he  had  first 
met  Benson's  advances,  until  finally  he  talked  to  him  almost  as  freely 
as  he  would  have  talked  to  Virginia  herself. 

If  Stephen  had  never  known  men,  it  was  equally  true  that  Benson 
had  never  known  boys,  his  father  having  made  his  own  youth  a 
period  of  the  most  rigorous  industry;  he  had  also  been  quiet  and 
studiously  inclined;  the  latter  a  characteristic  which  he  noted  Ste- 
phen did  not  appear  to  possess.  He  remembered  that  the  boy's 
father  and  uncle,  while  they  were  educated  men,  had  possessed  a 
much  greater  respect  for  books  than  knowledge  of  them;  and  it  im- 
pressed itself  upon  him  that  Stephen  was  most  unlikely  material 
from  which  to  recruit  a  member  of  one  of  the  learned  professions. 
In  short  the  boy  evinced  an  utter  and  astonishing  lack  of  curiosity 
concerning  the  lawyers  w«ll  selected  library  which  had  been  placed 


246  THE  LANDRAYS 

at  his  disposal.  When  Benson  commented  on  this  fact,  Stephen  in- 
formed him  quite  frankly  that  he  didn't  care  for  books;  he  had  all 
the  reading  he  wanted  at  school. 

"How  would  you  like  to  be  a  lawyer,  Stephen  ?"  Benson  asked 
him  on  one  occasion. 

"I  shouldn't  like  it,  Mr.  Benson,"  he  said  promptly. 

"Why  not,  Stephen?" 

*'I  don't  know,  only  I  just  know  I  shouldn't." 

"  But  you've  got  to  do  something,"  urged  Benson. 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  the  boy  slowly.  "My  Aunt  Virginia  wants  me 
to  be  a  professional  man,  but  I  tell  her  that  is  all  nonsense." 

"But  to  please  her,"  suggested  Benson. 

"I'd  do  a  good  deal  to  do  that,  but  what  I  want  is  something  out 
of  doors.  And  I'd  want  there  should  be  a  great  deal  of  money  in  it, 
whatever  I  did!" 

"And  if  you  got  a  great  deal  of  money  what  would  you  do  with  it  ? " 
asked  his  host. 

"Give  most  of  it  to  my  Aunt  Virginia,  and  keep  some  for  myself," 
answered  Stephen. 

"That's  a  first-rate  idea,"  said  Benson. 

"They,  my  father  and  uncle,  must  have  had  a  lot  of  money  once, 
Mr.  Benson." 

"Yes,  they  did  —  a  fortune.'* 

The  boy  frowned. 

"Well,  I  wish  it  hadn't  been  lost;  then  there  wouldn't  be  this  talk 
about  my  being  a  professional  man.  What  are  all  the  professions 
anyway,  Mr.  Benson?" 

"The  law,  medicine,  the  ministry  —  " 

"Oh,  well,  I  guess  I'll  have  to  argue  my  Aunt  Virginia  out  of  that 
notion!"  he  said  in  evident  low  spirits. 

Stephen  was  rather  good  looking  and  mature  for  his  years.  All  his 
ideas,  such  as  they  were,  were  well  thought  out  and  definite.  He 
was  dark  like  his  father,  and  had  the  Landray  air  of  high  breeding  ; 
indeed,  his  manner  toward  Benson  was  one  of  courteous  and  re- 
strained good-fellowship,  he  was  neither  boisterous  nor  familiar;  and 
the  lawyer,  considering  those  points  which  were  most  in  his  favour, 
decided  that  while  in  some  respects  he  was  only  an  average  boy,  he 
yet  possessed  certain  fine  possibilities  of  manhood,  though  he  was 
forced  to  own  he  did  not  quite  know  what  they  were,  and  was  dubi- 
ous as  to  their  practical  value.  He  remembered  that  his  father  and 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-NINE  247 

uncle  had  both  been  exceptional  men,  but  he  would  hardly  have 
called  them  successful  men. 

If  Benson's  opinion  of  Stephen  was  not  wholly  complimentary,  no 
doubt  of  the  boy's  capacity  or  brilliancy  ever  entered  Virginia's 
mind.  He  was  a  Landray,  and  she  was  sure  he  would  develop  into 
such  a  man  as  his  father  had  been.  She  felt  that  the  future  of  the  fam- 
ily rested  entirely  with  him,  and  had  her  own  ideals  of  what  this  future 
must  be. 

She  had  so  fixed  upon  a  profession  for  him  that  he  soon  ceased  to 
combat  the  idea,  though  it  was  peculiarly  distasteful  to  him;  and  this 
distaste  grew  as  he  grew,  until  his  apathy  on  this  one  point  was  so 
great  that  Virginia's  confidence  was  shaken  somewhat;  however, 
during  the  second  winter  of  his  attendance  at  the  public  school  he 
delighted  her  by  suggesting  the  law,  since  it  seemed  to  him  that  with 
Benson's  help  it  could  be  mastered  with  rather  less  personal  incon- 
venience than  any  other  of  the  professions;  and  probably  it  would 
be  all  right,  but  he  had  his  doubts,  still  to  please  his  aunt  he 
was  willing  to  make  the  effort;  and  so  the  law  it  became. 

The  following  winter  he  worried  through  Humes's  "History  of  Eng- 
land," and  then  in  very  low  spirits  took  up  Blackstone,  and  felt  that 
he  was  hopelessly  committed;  but  he  bravely  guarded  his  speech  that 
she  might  not  know  how  great  a  sacrifice  he  was  making. 

In  his  fancy,  speculating  on  his  future,  he  saw  himself  as  he  saw 
Benson,  digging  away  at  his  desk,  among  piles  of  papers,  or  delving 
into  yellow  calfskin  volumes;  or  arguing  his  cases  in  the  stuffy  little 
court-room;  or  returning  dusty  or  muddy,  according  to  the  season, 
from  the  round  of  the  circuit  courts;  and  this  cheerless  prospect  filled 
him  with  a  secret  anguish  that  time  in  no  wise  abated.  He  did  not 
dare  tell  any  one  what  he  would  really  have  liked  to  do,  which  in- 
volved leaving  home  and  going  West;  the  life  there,  as  he  imagined  it 
was  the  only  kind  of  life  he  could  think  of  with  any  degree  of  satis- 
faction. But  this  he  knew  could  never  be  for  him;  so  he  plodded 
grimly  on  in  his  studies,  and  while  he  was  not  brilliant  he  wasted  no 
time,  but  persevered  in  his  uncongenial  pursuits  with  a  dogged  tenac- 
ity that  went  far  to  atone  for  his  lack  of  heart  in  his  work.  It  would 
not  have  been  so  bad,  if  he  had  not  felt  he  was  surely  building  toward 
a  future  in  which  he  could  take  no  vital  interest. 

One  day,  during  his  fourth  year  in  school,  his  teacher  was  called 
from  the  room,  and  on  his  return  went  to  Stephen's  desk. 

"You  are  wanted,  Landray,  at  home,"  he  said.  "No,  there  is 


Z48  THE  LANDRAYS 

nothing  wrong  there,"  he  added,  seeing  the  startled  look  on  the  boy's 
face.  Outside  in  the  hall  Stephen  found  Sam  West. 

"What  is  it,  Sam  ?"  he  asked  anxiously. 

"I  don't  know,  but  your  aunt  sent  me  in  for  you,  she  wants  to 
see  you.  W7ants  you  should  go  back  with  me  right  away." 

"But  what  is  it,  Sam  ?  You're  sure  she  is  not  sick  ?"  he  persisted, 
in  vague  alarm. 

"No,  she  ain't,  sick;  she's  all  right.  I  was  in  town  this  morning  and 
took  a  letter  out  to  her;  she  read  it,  and  sent  me  in  for  you;  that's  all 
I  know  about  it,"  Sam  explained. 

On  reaching  home  Stephen  hurried  into  the  library  where  he  found 
Virginia  waiting  for  him. 

"There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  you,  is  there,  Aunt  Virginia  ?" 
he  questioned  anxiously.  "You're  not  sick,  are  you  ?" 

"Oh,  no,  dear  —  were  you  alarmed  ?"  Virginia  asked. 

"Well,  yes,  I  was!"  he  answered.  "You  see  I  couldn't  make  out 
why  you  should  send  for  me." 

"Sit  down,  Stephen.  I  have  heard  from  Dr.  Stillman.  Sam  brought 
me  the  letter  two  hours  ago."  Her  manner  was  very  gentle,  and  the 
boy  saw  that  her  eyes  were  red  as  with  weeping. 

"Is  there  anything  the  matter  with  my  mother  ?"  he  asked  quickly. 

"Yes,  dear,"  said  Virginia  softly. 

"She's  sick?" 

"Yes,  she  has  been  very  ill,  Stephen." 

He  looked  up  into  her  face. 

"You  mean  —  "  he  began,  with  strange  hesitancy. 

"She  is  dead,  dear.  Your  mother  is  dead." 

"Dead?"  he  repeated.  He  did  not  seem  to  understand.  "When 
did  it  happen  ?"  he  asked  at  length. 

He  saw  that  his  aunt  expected  some  show  of  emotion  from  him, 
but  he  was  conscious  of  no  emotion  beyond  surprise.  With  the  years 
that  had  intervened  since  her  going  away,  his  mother's  letters  had 
grown  less  and  less  frequent.  She  had  long  since  ceased  to  write  him 
with  any  regularity,  and  when  her  rare  letters  did  reach  him,  they 
had  been  a  burden  to  him  rather  than  a  pleasure.  He  had  not  known 
how  to  answer  them. 

"Would  you  like  to  see  Dr.  Stillman's  letter?"  Virginia  asked. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"No;  you  tell  me  what  he  says,"  he  replied. 

"  It  is  very  brief,  it  was  posted  over  four  months  ago.  She  died 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-NINE  249 

in  upper  Burmah,  where  she  said  they  were  going  in  the  last  letter 
we  received  from  her,  you  remember,  dear  ? " 

He  nodded  slightly. 

"It  seems  that  her  death  was  very  sudden,  a  fever  of  some  sort. 
Aren't  you  very,  very  sorry,  dear  ? " 

The  inadequacy  of  his  emotion,  as  she  felt  it,  v;as  a  shock  to  her. 

"Why,  yes,  of  course  I  am!"  he  said.  "I  wish  I  remembered  her 
better.  You'd  like  me  to  show  a  good  deal  of  feeling,  wouldn't  you  ? 
but  how  can  I,  when  I  don't  remember  her  so  very  well  ?  You're  the 
only  mother  I've  had,  you've  been  a  real  mother  to  me!  I  suppose 
you  feel  it  more  than  I  do,  and  you're  surprised  at  it." 

"And  you  don't  remember?"  asked  Virginia  with  tender  pity; 
pity  for  him,  and  pity  for  the  dead  woman. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do,  in  a  way.  I  remember  her  saying  good-bye  and 
going  off  in  the  carriage.  I  watched  her  drive  away  from  the  hall 
window  up-stairs,  and  you  came  to  me  there,  and  found  me  crying, 
you  were  crying,  too;  I  remember  a  lot  about  her  before  that, 
long  before  that;  and  I  remember  him  —  the  doctor,  I  mean.  Why,  I 
must  have  been  a  good-sized  boy  when  they  left!" 

"Yes,"  said  Virginia  sadly. 

"I  thought  it  was  longer  ago  than  that,"  he  muttered. 

There  was  no  use  in  his  trying  to  show  a  gri«f  he  did  not  feel;  his 
aunt  would  have  detected  the  false  ring  if  he  had  attempted  it;  yet  he 
wondered,  disquietingly,  that  he  was  so  little  stirred. 

He  never  asked  to  see  Dr.  Stillman's  letter,  and  only  read  it  when 
he  found  that  Virginia  was  really  anxious  he  should;  and  then  hav- 
ing read  it,  he  returned  it  to  her  without  comment  beyond  the  words, 
"I  don't  like  him!"  meaning  the  doctor;  but  then,  as  a  child,  he  had 
not  liked  him. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY 

TOM  BENSON,  a  younger  brother  of  old  Jacob  Benson  had 
emigrated  to  Ohio  some  time  in  the  early  twenties.  He  was  a 
superior  sort  of  a  mechanic,  and  when  Newton  Bently  estab- 
lished his  iron  works,  Tom  sought  and  found  employment  with  him. 

He  was  an  excellent  workman,  acquainted  with  all  branches  of 
his  trade;  and  Bently  did  not  disdain  to  acknowledge  that  his  fore- 
man knew  more  of  the  practical  conduct  of  the  shops  than  he  did 
himself. 

"But  don't  tell  Tom  Benson  I  said  so!"  he  always  added,  when 
he  had  been  dwelling  on  the  Yankee  mechanic's  skill  and  judgment. 
"He  don't  need  any  boosting  from  me!  Why,  I  expect  he  could  go  to 
Carthage  to-morrow,  and  get  double  the  wages  I'm  paying  him!" 

But  Tom  Benson  had  no  idea  of  going  to  Carthage,  or  anywhere 
else.  Yet  if  Bently  supposed  that  he  was  not  aware  of  his  own  value, 
he  was  grievously  mistaken  in  his  man. 

This  was  proved  one  day  by  his  leaving  his  bench  and  walking 
into  the  office  with  his  coat  on  his  arm,  where  without  waste  of  words 
he  coolly  proposed  to  Mr.  Bently  that  he  take  him  into  partnership. 

Bently,  when  his  first  surprise  had  somewhat  abated  and  he  had 
found  words  which  he  deemed  adequate  to  the  occasion,  intimated 
that  he  would  see  him  damned  long  before  he  would  even  vaguely 
entertain  such  an  idea;  whereat  Tom  Benson  turned  on  his  heel, 
merely  remarking  in  an  offhand  way: 

"Well,  you  know  where  to  find  me  when  you  want  me!" 

"I  sha'n't  want  you,  I'm  done  with  you,  Tom!"  said  Bently 
ungraciously  enough. 

"Oh,  no,  you  ain't!"  retorted  the  mechanic,  slipping  into  his 
coat.  "You'll  want  me  the  worst  kind  of  a  way  before  the  month's 
up!  Who've  you  got  to  set  them  engines  you're  making  in  the  shops  ? " 

"What's  to  hinder  me  from  getting  out  and  doing  that  job  myself?" 
demanded  Bently. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY  251 

Benson  laughed  in  his  face. 

"Maybe  you  think  I  can't!"  cried  Mr.  Bently. 

"  I  ain't  said  it,"  answered  Benson  briefly,  and  with  that  he  walked 
out  of  the  office. 

At  the  end  of  just  two  weeks,  work  was  at  a  standstill  in  the  shops, 
and  on  the  two  most  important  contracts  Bently  had  ever  been  able 
to  secure.  Then  he  sent  for  Tom  Benson.  His  messenger  —  it  was 
Williams,  the  bookkeeper  —  found  the  mechanic  in  his  room  at  his 
boarding-house.  He  was  sitting  by  his  open  window  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves, his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  chin  sunk  in  his  palms,  and  the 
stem  of  a  short  black  pipe  clinched  between  his  teeth.  He  heard 
Williams  quietly,  then  he  said: 

"Tell  Bently  he  knows  where  to  find  me  when  he  wants  to  see  me. 
I  sha'n't  stir  out  of  here  for  two  weeks  more." 

This  word  being  conveyed  to  Bently,  he  swore  he  would  close  the 
shops  rather  than  again  hold  any  communication  with  the  obdurate 

mechanic. 

"Me  go  to  him,  when  it's  been  me  paying  him  wages?  I  guess 
when  his  money's  gone  he'll  think  differently  about  who's  to  do  the 
running  back  and  forth!  I'll  quit  business  before  I'll  jump  at  the 
snapping  of  his  fingers!" 

But  a  week  later  when  it  seemed  this  was  the  very  thing  he  would 
be  forced  to  do,  he  sent  his  bookkeeper  once  again  to  the  mechanic. 

"Sort  of  smooth  him  down,  Williams!"  he  said.  "He  always  was  a 
cross-grained  cuss!  Make  him  the  prettiest  speech  you  can,  but  fetch 
him  back  herewith  you,  we're  just  playing  hell  with  them  two  jobs 

And  Williams  found  Tom  Benson  still  by  his  open  window,  si 
in  his  shirt-sleeves,  still  with  his  chin  in  his  palms,  and  still  smoking. 
He  interpreted  Mr.  Bently's  request  for  a  speedy  audience  with  all 
possible  tact. 

The  mechanic  remained  unmoved.  t 

"Bently  knows  where  to  find  me  when  he  needs  me;  and  don  t 
you  come  back  here,  Williams,  unless  you  want  I  should  throw  you 
down  them  steps." 

But  Bently  waited  yet  another  day  in  the  hope  that  lorn  benson 
would  relent,  then  he  hurried  to  the  mechanic's  boarding-place.  1 
latter  heard  him  on  the  stairs,  and  as  he  entered  the  room   put  out  a 
long  muscular  leg  and  courteously  kicked  a  chair  toward  him.  He 
pointed  to  it  with  the  stem  of  the  pipe  he  had  taken  from  between  h 
teeth. 


252  THE  LANDRAYS 

"Set  down,"  he  said. 

"What's  your  proposition,  Tom?"  demanded  Bendy  gruffly. 

"Me  —  oh,  I  ain't  making  none  now.  I'd  a  gone  to  you  if  I  'd  one 
to  make  like  I  done  before,  but  your  coming  to  me  sort  of  made  me 
think  —  "  Here  he  broke  off  to  ask,  "How  are  you  getting  on  with 
them  engines  anyhow  ?" 

"All  right,"  said  Bently,  with  stern  untruth. 

"That's  good,"  was  Benson's  only  comment. 

"Come!  what's  your  proposition,  Tom  ?"  urged  Bently  irritably. 

"Oh,  well,  you  ain'  needing  me  so  very  bad,  I  guess  you  made 
a  mistake  in  coming  round." 

"What  would  you  say  to  a  fourth  interest  in  the  shops  ?" 

"I  wouldn't  even  say  thank  you,"  shifting  his  position  to  spit  out 
of  the  window. 

"You  wouldn't!" 

"I  wouldn't.  That  was  to  have  been  my  proposition  three  weeks 
ago,  but  the  parts  of  them  engines  warn't  laying  about  the  shops  then, 
like  so  much  scrap  iron.  That  makes  a  difference." 

"I  suppose  you're  standing  off  for  more  of  an  interest!  Pretty 
underhanded  of  you  to  creep  up  like  this!" 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  stop  creeping.  I  reckon  this  will  set  me  on  my 
legs  good  and  fair,"  and  Benson  grinned. 

"Is  it  a  half  you're  after,  Tom  ?"  demanded  Bently  sourly. 

"Well,  yes,  make  it  a  fair  half,  and  I'm  your  man!" 

In  the  end  Bently  accepted  his  terms,  and  a  few  years  later,  Tom 
Benson,  who  was  a  good-looking  fellow,  repaid  his  kindness  by  run- 
ning off  with  and  marrying  his  daughter.  The  relations  between  the 
two  men  were  never  quite  friendly.  Bently  drifted  more  and  more  into 
politics,  first  holding  one  office  and  then  another;  while  Tom,  at  the 
shops,  freed  of  his  active  opposition,  began  to  build  heavy  machin- 
ery, and  secured  contracts  his  father-in-law  would  never  have 
dreamed  of  taking,  and  could  not  have  filled,  had  he  taken  them. 

Benson  was  consumed  by  a  great  ambition,  not  for  wealth  exactly, 
though  wealth  must  have  been  an  incident.  The  railroad  had  already 
greatly  extended  their  market,  but  this  did  not  satisfy  him;  he  felt 
that  the  world  was  at  the  beginning  of  an  age  when  iron  and  steam 
would  be  used  for  a  multitude  of  then  unknown  purposes.  He  was 
experimenting  with  improved  machinery,  machinery  that  was  to 
largely  displace  the  costly  hand  labour  which  at  its  best  could  not  be 
counted  on  for  results  that  were  always  uniform,  since  the  human 


CHAPTER  THIRTY  253 

equation  seemed  to  combat  organization,  to  limit  production.  He 
imagined  machinery,  tireless,  and  skillful  far  beyond  the  skill  of  men, 
and  unvaryingly  effective;  but  above  all,  his  great  dream  was  to 
cheapen  iron  and  steam.  Toward  this  end,  he  was  always  planning, 
always  contriving. 

Mr.  Bently,  now  established  at  the  post-office,  swore  a  good  deal 
at  what  the  energetic  Tom  was  doing;  however,  when  he  ventured 
into  the  shops  he  was  meek  enough,  his  displeasure  and  disap- 
proval manifesting  itself  only  in  an  air  of  cynical  derision  with  which 
he  listened  to  the  Yankee  mechanic's  plans  and  theories. 

Yet  at  the  end  of  ten  years,  under  Benson's  management,  the 
works  covered  an  acre  of  ground,  and  employed  fifty  men  where 
they  had  not  kept  twenty  busy  when  he  assumed  control. 

His  family  now  consisted  of  his  wife  and  a  daughter;  he  lived  in  a 
large  house  on  Water  Street,  which  built  according  to  plans  of  his 
own,  violated  every  known  law  of  beauty,  but  conformed  to  every 
requirement  of  strength  and  durability. 

Jacob  Benson  was  on  the  best  of  terms  with  his  uncle.  As  a  result 
of  their  intimacy  Stephen  came  to  know  the  mechanic  and  his  daugh- 
ter Marian,  who  was  frequently  her  father's  companion  when  he 
strolled  around  to  the  lawyer's  office  of  an  evening  to  chat  —  for  he 
had  a  mighty  hankering  for  political  discussion,  and  certain  radical 
convictions  of  his  own  were  as  fundamental  with  his  nephew  as  they 
were  with  himself,  being  in  truth  a  part  of  their  very  blood  and  bone. 
At  first  the  girl  treated  the  boy  with  shy  deference,  while  toward 
her  he  assumed  an  air  of  lofty  tolerance;  but  imperceptibly  this  atti- 
tude of  his  changed;  he  grew  shy,  she  tolerant.  While  he  liked  Marian, 
he  did  not  altogether  approve  of  her  family.  Her  mother  he  com- 
pared unfavourably  with  his  aunt.  He  was  now  a  tall  young  fellow  of 
seventeen  or  eighteen,  and  in  his  last  year  at  the  high  school. 

When  Virginia,  learned  as  she  did  in  time,  where  many  of  his 
evenings  were  spent,  she  would  have  discouraged  his  visits  to  the 
Water  Street  house  had  she  known  how;  but  she  feared  the  effect  of 
opposition.  She  was  aware  that  he  was  stubborn  in  his  quiet  way. 
Yet  undeclared  as  her  disapproval  was,  he  was  conscious  of  it,  and 
it  was  unpleasant  to  him.  He  thought  her  unfair  in  this  particular 
instance;  he  appreciated  that  neither  Tom  Benson  nor  his  wife  were 
the  kind  of  people  she  would  care  to  know,  but  he  resented  that  she 
should  include  Marian  in  this  evident  feeling  she  had  for  them. 
Stephen  was  graduated  from  the  high  school,  and  settled  down  to 


254  THE  LANDRAYS 

read  law  in  earnest,  but  his  zeal  came  and  went  by  fits  and  starts. 
Success  in  life  was  highly  desirable,  but  it  seemed  no  more  than  a 
vague  possibility.  He  would  have  liked  to  try  his  hand  at  the  farm, 
but  the  income  it  yielded  forbade  his  doing  anything  there.  They 
must  live,  and  he  was  not  so  sure  there  would  be  anything  to  live 
on  while  he  experimented  with  crops. 

He  felt  more  and  more  as  time  went  on,  the  inconvenience  of  their 
limited  income.  It  made  it  the  more  difficult  that  he  believed  he  was 
wasting  his  time  in  Benson's  office,  and  that  the  law  offered  but  an 
uncertain  and  precarious  means  of  escape  from  the  perplexities  that 
were  already  hedging  him  in. 

But  events  were  to  shape  his  future  for  him  in  ways  he  could  not 
know. 

One  April  day  as  he  sat  alone  in  the  office  by  the  window  that  over- 
looked the  square,  he  saw  Ben  Wirt  suddenly  appear  in  front  of  the 
little  one  story  building  which  was  occupied  by  the  Western  Union  as 
a  telegraph  office.  Wirt  was  the  operator.  He  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
and  he  carried  in  his  hand  a  fluttering  strip  of  paper. 

For  an  instant  he  stood  in  front  of  his  office,  glancing  back  and 
forth  across  the  square,  as  though  he  were  looking  for  some  one,  but 
for  the  moment  the  square  was  deserted;  then  he  espied  Benson  just 
issuing  from  the  court-house  half  a  block  away,  and  hurried  after 
him,  calling  as  he  ran. 

Stephen  closed  his  book,  and  watched  them  ;  they  spoke  to- 
gether, and  he  saw  the  lawyer  take  the  slip  of  paper  and  examine  it. 
Then  they  were  joined  by  one  or  two  other  men  ;  and  he  saw  the 
paper  pass  from  hand  to  hand. 

Now  quite  a  crowd  had  collected  about  Wirt  and  the  lawyer. 
Court,  which  was  sitting,  seemed  to  have  adjourned  for  some  inex- 
plicable reason.  There  was  the  dumb  show  of  eager  questions  and 
answers.  And  then  Benson  detached  himself  from  the  group  and 
came  hurrying  across  the  square.  When  he  entered  the  office,  Stephen 
turned  to  him  questioningly. 

"What  is  it  ?"  he  asked  eagerly. 

"They  have  fired  on  Fort  Sumter!"  cried  Benson. 

"What  if  they  have,  that's  about  what  I've  been  expecting. 
Is  that  what  they  were  talking  about  out  there  ?" 

"Yes;  they  began  firing  on  Fort  Sumter  early  this  morning;  this 
means  that  the  other  slave  States  will  join  those  that  have  already 
gone  out!" 


CHAPTER  THIRTY  255 

"Oh,  no,  they  won't!"  said  the  young  man  easily,  and  with  sudden 
cheerfulness.  "We  won't  let  them!"  he  tossed  his  book  to  the  table 
and  left  his  chair.  "We  won't  let  them!"  he  repeated. 

"We!"  cried  Benson. 

"Certainly!"  he  laughed  queerly,  gleefully.  "I  shan't  be  able  to 
stop  them  alone,  but  if  there's  going  to  be  a  war,  they'll  want  sol- 
diers to  fight  —  that  will  just  suit  me!  I'll  enlist!" 

"You!  You'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind!"  said  Benson  sharply. 
''Why,  you're  just  ready  to  be  admitted  to  the  bar." 

"I'll  never  make  a  lawyer!"  the  boy  kept  on  with  growing  enthu- 
siasm. "I've  known  that  all  along;  but  soldiering —  " 

"You're  too  young,"  began  the  lawyer. 

"I'm  twenty,  and  it  will  be  the  young  fellow's  fight!  The  old 
fellows  will  stay  home  and  talk  fight  just  the  way  they  have  been 
doing  ever  since  I  can  remember  —  what  are  they  ringing  that  con- 
founded court-house  bell  for  anyhow?" 

"They  are  going  to  call  a  meeting,  I  suppose,"  said  the  lawyer. 

"To  pass  resolutions  ?"  shouted  the  boy,  laughing.  "To  encourage 
us  young  fellows  to  go  down  South  and  get  shot  ?  It  takes  experience 
to  knock  together  a  batch  of  resolutions  that  look  well  on  paper  ; 
that's  the  job  for  the  old  fellows!  Stiff  joints  don't  disqualify  a  man 
for  that  sort  of  thing.  I'll  bet  they  make  you  chairman,  you  or  old 
Bradly." 

"You  seem  to  find  a  good  deal  of  amusement  in  this,"  said  Benson. 

"I  do.  I'm  just  thinking  what  a  lot  of  talking  and  quill  driving  has 
gone  to  get  this  thing  started,  but  the  real  work  will  be  done  in 
quite  another  way;  and  it's  the  other  way  that  suits  me!" 

"I  wish  you'd  leave  yourself  out  of  this,  Stephen,"  said  Benson 

shortly.  .          , 

"I  want  to  get  you  acquainted  with  the  idea  that  I  am  to  be  in  it! 

retorted  Stephen. 

Benson  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  suppose  you  think  that  a  good  strong  set  of  resolutions  from  the 
town  of  Benson  in  the  State  of  Ohio,  will  settle  the  business,"  said  the 
boy,  still  laughing. 

"Suppose  there  should  be  a  call  for  men,  and  you  should  enlist: 
how  do  you  think  your  aunt  would  feel  ? "  inquired  Benson. 

This  sobered  Stephen  instantly. 

"Well,"  he  rejoined  slowly,  "if  there's  a  war.  I  don't  suppose 
it  can  be  carried  on  by  the  orphans  of  the  country;  but,  come  to  think 


256  THE  LANDRAYS 

of  it,  that  describes  me,  though  I  hadn't  thought  of  myself  as  that 

before!" 

"No;  and  why  hadn't  you  thought  of  it?"  demanded  the  lawyer 
quickly. 

"Well,  I  never  think  of  myself  in  that  way;  my  Aunt  Virginia's  been 
too  good  to  me,  for  me  to  have  missed  anything  in  my  life  in  the  way 
of  affection,  you  know  that!" 

"And  you  are  now  considering  making  her  this  singularly  grate- 
ful return  for  all  her  goodness." 

"That's  so,"  said  Stephen  drily.  "I'm  all  she  has,  just  as  she  is  all 
I  have,"  but  the  acknowledgment  was  made  reluctantly  enough. 

"I  was  sure  you  would  think  of  that,"  said  Benson. 

The  boy  turned  with  a  sigh  to  his  chair  by  the  window. 

"Perhaps  there  won't  be  any  need  of  men,"  he  muttered. 

"Let  us  hope  not,"  Benson  gravely  rejoined.  "Will  you  come 
with  me  ?"  he  added.  "I'm  going  back  to  see  if  Wirt  has  heard  any- 
thing more." 

"No,  it's  not  for  me,  you've  shown  me  that,"  said  Stephen 
quietly,  taking  up  his  book  again. 

He  remained  in  the  office  and  read  on,  doggedly  and  determinedly 
seeking  to  close  his  senses  to  all  external  sights  and  sounds.  Whatever 
happened,  duty  and  devotion  left  but  one  course  open  to  him. 

That  evening  —  it  was  Friday  —  he  went  home;  he  wished  to 
escape  from  the  fever  of  excitement  that  he  knew  was  raging  all 
about  him,  though  he  had  voluntarily  held  himself  aloof  from  it  as 
from  something  he  feared. 

Early  the  next  morning  he  hunted  up  Sam  West,  who  had  spent  half 
the  night  in  town.  Of  him  he  eagerly  enquired  the  latest  news;  the 
bombardment  of  Fort  Sumter  still  continued.  In  the  afternoon,  Jack- 
son, the  farm  tenant,  was  able  to  tell  him  that  a  meeting  had  been 
called  for  Monday  night;  and  that  Captain  Jim  McKeever,  a 
veteran  of  the  Mexican  War,  who  had  recently  failed  in  the  liquor 
business,  had  already  been  to  Columbus  and  had  returned  with 
the  governor's  authority  to  raise  a  company  of  volunteers  in  the  event 
of  there  being  a  call  for  troops. 

Stephen  knew  the  captain,  a  dissipated  little  man,  whose  record  as 
a  citizen  was  far  from  spotless;  but  in  the  boy's  eyes  he  suddenly 
assumed  heroic  proportions,  for  he  had  met  the  occasion  in  the  one 
way  it  could  be  met,  he  had  risen  above  profitless  discussion.  He 
slowly  turned  this  latest  information  over  in  his  mind  as  he  strolled 


CHAPTER  THIRTY  257 

about  the  place.  One  thing  was  certain,  he  would  not  go  into  town; 
most  of  all,  he  would  not  go  near  that  meeting  on  Monday  night. 

Yet  when  Monday  came,  and  never  before  had  a  Sunday  seemed 
so  long  in  passing,  or  such  a  useless  interruption  to  the  affairs  of 
life,  he  found  his  interest  in  the  meeting  all  consuming  and  not  to 
be  denied;  Sumter  had  fallen,  and  surely  something  would  be 
done!  During  the  afternoon  he  informed  Virginia  that  he  was  going 
in  to  see  Benson;  and  after  supper  rode  in  with  Jackson  who 
expected  to  attend  the  meeting.  But  when  they  reached  town,  the 
court-hcuse  was  already  packed  to  the  doors;  Stephen  could  not 
have  gained  admittance  had  he  wished;  but  he  no  longer  wished  to, 
for  what  was  going  forward  on  the  square  he  found  infinitely  more 
to  his  taste. 

The  centre  of  interest  was  Captain  McKeever,  who,  mounted  on 
an  upturned  barrel  was  haranguing  the  crowd  that  pressed  about 
him.  The  whole  scene  was  more  one  of  popular  rejoicing  than  any- 
thing else;  for  no  one  then  realized  the  blackness  of  the  shadow  that 
was  falling  on  the  land;  all  was  life  and  excitement,  and  joyous  an- 
ticipation. How  soon  this  was  to  simmer  down  in  the  realities  of  war, 
no  one  could  have  foreseen;  but  that,  too,  was  again  a  phase  of  the 
national  uprising,  which  was  only  national  as  it  was  widely  indi- 
vidual. 

Stephen  was  not  in  the  least  moved  by  McKeever's  speech;  he  had 
a  certain  contempt  for  oratory;  even  the  quiet  restraint  that  charac- 
terized most  of  Benson's  utterances  in  public,  and  he  rarely  ven- 
tured on  a  metaphor  or  happy  turn,  had  always  offended  him;  but 
his  glance  was  fixed  yearningly  on  a  score  or  more  of  men  in  red 
shirts,  who  kept  together  about  the  speaker.  At  intervals,  from  the 
court-house  there  issued  the  sound  of  cheers  and  the  heavy  stamping 
of  feet,  but  he  had  no  interest  in  what  was  passing  there;  it  was 
McKeever  who  was  worth  watching,  McKeever  and  his  men!  Yet 
after  a  time  he  disengaged  himself  from  the  crowd,  and  was  about 
to  turn  away,  when  some  one  touched  him  gently  on  the  arm.  It  was 
Marian  Benson. 

"I've  been  standing  close  at  your  elbow  for  the  past  ten  minutes, 
and  you  never  saw  me,  you  hadn't  any  eyes  for  me!"  she  said, 
laughing  up  into  his  face. 

"I  was  listening  to  McKeever,"  he  muttered. 

"But  you  were  looking  at  the  men  who've  enlisted,  you  never 
took  your  eyes  off  them;  you  looked  and  looked." 


258  THE  LANDRAYS 

"Did  I  ?  Aren't  you  afraid  here  alone  in  all  this  crowd  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  am  waiting  for  papa,"  she  explained.  "He  has  gone  into  the 
court-house,  but  I  wanted  to  hear  Captain  McKeever,  so  I  told  him 
I  would  stand  here  by  you.  Isn't  it  dreadfully  exciting  ?  Do  you  think 
the  captain  will  be  able  to  raise  his  company  ?  How  fine  it  was  of  him 
to  go  to  Columbus  and  offer  to  enlist  men  for  the  government!" 

"Oh,  yes,  every  one  seems  to  want  to  join,"  said  the  young  man 
moodily. 

He  drew  her  further  from  the  crowd.  They  turned  the  corner  into 
Main  Street;  here  there  was  silence. 

"I  suppose  they  are  afraid  it  will  be  over  with  so  soon,  don't  you  ?" 
suggested  the  girl. 

"I  don't  think  they  need  worry  about  that,"  answered  Stephen, 
moved  to  prophesy.  He  was  conscious  that  his  head  ached,  and  that 
to  have  left  the  crowded  square  came  as  a  welcome  relief  to  him. 
"Why  should  we  think  it's  going  to  be  all  our  way?"  he  asked.  "I 
suppose  down  South  they  are  thinking  the  same  thing ;  probably 
they  and  we  are  both  wrong." 

"Shall  you  go,  have  you  enlisted?"  she  asked  quickly.  She  was 
in  a  flutter  of  foolish  excitement;  she  had  been  eager  to  ask  him  this. 
Mentally  she  clothed  his  erect  stalwart  figure  in  a  splendid  uniform. 
War  had  no  significance  to  her  beyond  the  externals;  that  it  might 
mean  death,  and  suffering,  she  had  not  considered. 

"No,"  he  said  slowly,  but  added  in  the  same  breath,  "not  yet;" 
for  he  noted  the  quick  change  that  had  come  over  her,  and  knew 
that  she  was  disappointed  in  him. 

"If  I  were  a  man  —  "  began  the  girl,  and  then  stopped  abruptly, 
abashed  and  diffident,  realizing  to  what  her  words  would  lead. 

"And  what  would  you  do  if  you  were  a  man,  Marian,  surely  you 
wouldn't  want  to  be  a  soldier  ?"  he  said,  smiling  down  at  her. 

"Yes,  I  should  want  to  be  a  soldier!  What  can  be  more  noble  than 
to  fight  for  one's  country  ?" 

Stephen  gulped  down  something  that  rose  in  his  throat;  his  breast 
seemed  to  swell  to  bursting  with  dull  anguish,  that  it  should  be  re- 
quired of  him  to  play  so  mean  a  part  in  this  crisis. 

"Why,  Marian,  I  believe  you  want  me  to  enlist!"  he  said  at  last 
in  miserable  perplexity. 

"No,  I  don't,  I  haven't  any  right  to  want  you  to  do  anything," 
she  gave  her  head  a  scornful  little  toss.  '"  Perhaps  you  wouldn't  like 
to  be  a  soldier." 


CHAPTER  THIRTY  2<# 

"You  have  no  right  to  sneer  at  me!"  said  the  boy,  in  a  tone  oi 
bitter  injury. 

He  was  not  even  aware  of  her  silliness;  his  one  thought  was  that 
this  was  the  way  all  women  would  feel,  except  only  his  Aunt  Vir- 
ginia, who  seemed  so  resolutely  opposed  to  all  that  his  heart  hungered 
for.  His  father  and  his  uncle  had  been  brave  men!  Every  one  would 
expect  something  of  him;  and  here  he  was  doomed  to  stay  at  home 
and  read  law.  Read  law!  Why,  he  would  be  the  laughing  stock  of  the 
town.  In  his  quick  unreasoning  vanity  he  saw  himself  disgraced,  an 
object  of  ridicule;  how  was  he  to  hold  up  his  head  ?  He  turned  un- 
steadily to  the  girl  at  his  side,  forgetful  of  the  momentary  hurt  she 
had  given  him. 

"If  I  go,  Marian,  shall  you  forget  me  ?"  he  asked. 

"Are  you  going,  are  you  really  going?"  she  cried,  resting  her 
hand  on  his  arm,  and  glancing  into  his  face  with  smiling  eyes. 

"You'll  not  forget  me,"  he  repeated,  "we've  been  such  good 
friends,  I  can't  bear  to  think  that  you  might  be  able  to  forget  me; 
yet  if  I  go  —  "  He  covered  the  hand  she  had  rested  on  his  arm  with 
his  own. 

"Of  course  I  shan't  forget  you,  Stephen,"  she  murmured.  "Why, 
how  absurd  of  you  to  speak  of  that!  I  shall  always  remember  you, 
I  never  forget  my  friends,  never!" 

"When  I  come  back  may  I  tell  you  something  I've  wanted  to  tell 
you  for  ever  so  long  —  may  I  ?" 

She  half  hid  her  face  on  his  arm,  the  pretty  face  that  was  making 
him  a  traitor  to  his  duty.  A  new  and  strange  emotion  mastered  him, 
as  he  felt  her  tremble  at  his  side,  the  pressure  of  her  little  hands  on 
his  arm,  her  cheek  against  his  sleeve;  he  drew  her  closer  to  him,  and 
upward,  until  her  flushed  face  was  on  a  level  with  his  own,  and  then 
for  the  first  time  he  kissed  her—  not  once,  but  again,  and  again. 

"You  know  what  I  mean,  Marian!"  he  whispered  rapturously. 
"I'm  not  going  to  wait  to  tell  you  that  I  love  you,  I'm  going  to  teh 
you  now  before  I  go;"  for  he  was  going,  he  could  not  stay  to  be  held 
in  contempt  by  her. 

Presently  they  retraced  their  steps,  the  boy  still  drunk  with  ec- 
stasy. The  band  was  playing  now;  McKeever  had  ended  his  speech. 
Marian's  eyes  sparkled  at  the  sound,  her  little  feet  kept  eager  step. 

"Isn't  it  glorious!"  she  murmured,  clinging  to  him.  "Who 
wouldn't  be  a  soldier  that  could  be!  I  am  so  glad  you  are  going, 
Stephen,  I  was  almost  afraid  to  ask  you  at  first." 


26o  THE  LANDRAYS 

But  Stephen  did  not  answer  her.  Joy  in  the  pride  of  his  asserted 
manhood  left  him  dumb  ;  he  had  broken  free  of  the  dull  office,  with 
its  drab  walls  and  dusty  walnut  woodwork,  and  littered  desk,  its  book- 
cases with  their  yellow  calfskin  volumes  ;  his  future  was  to  be  wholly 
given  over  to  heroism  and  glory!  He  was  sure  that  he  had  made  a 
choice  that  none,  not  even  his  Aunt  Virginia  or  Benson,  when  they 
fully  understood  how  he  felt  about  it,  would  censure  him  for  having 
made. 

The  drums  and  fifes  rattled  on  merrily,  the  lights  in  the  court- 
house windows  flashed  out  over  the  noisy  mob  on  the  square.  Ste- 
phen found  a  place  for  Marian  on  the  tavern  steps  where  she  could 
see  all  that  was  passing. 

McKeever's  Company,  with  McKeever  at  its  head,  was  making 
the  circuit  of  the  square.  Here  and  there  as  it  moved  along,  a  man 
would  break  through  the  crowd  and  fall  in  line,  to  be  greeted  by  a 
burst  of  frantic  cheering. 

The  company  crossed  the  north  side  of  the  square,  then  the  west 
and  south  sides,  now  it  was  approaching  the  east  side  and  the  tavern 
where  Marian,  clinging  to  the  boy's  arm,  stood  flushed  and  eager; 
but  as  the  marching  men  came  opposite  them,  she  uttered  a  little 
smothered  cry  of  dismay,  for  Stepehn  had  gently  released  himself 
from  her  hold. 

An  instant  later  and  he  had  vanished  in  the  crowd,  and  when  she 

g  * 

saw  him  again  he  was  one  of  the  marching  men. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-ONE 

I'VE  enlisted,"  said  Stephen  to  Benson. 
The   crowd   had   dispersed,  and    silence   had    fallen  on  the 
square.  Benson  had  just  entered  his  office  whither  Stephen 
had  preceded  him.  The  latter  stood  before  his  friend,  shame-faced 
and  dogged,  with  his  blood  quite  cooled,  and  accused  by  an  awaken- 
ing sense  of  duty,  which  denied  by  his  act,  was  now  protesting  against 
that  act. 

"I've  enlisted,"  he  repeated,  "and  I  must  go  home  and  tell  my 
Aunt  Virginia." 

"You've  done  what?"  cried  Benson,  wheeling  on  him. 

"Don't  I  make  it  plain  to  you,  I've  said  it  twice  —  I've  enlisted. 
I'm  going  to  the  war." 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort!"  said  Benson  sharply  and  angrily. 
"What  do  you  expect  me  to  say  to  you  ?" 

"I  hope  you'll  be  careful  what  you  say,"  retorted  the  young  fellow, 
grinning  with  a  fleeting  sense  of  humour  at  the  situation,  "for  I'm  a 
soldier  now!"  He  seated  himself,  and  buried  his  hands  deep  in  his 
trousers'  pockets.  "  I've  thrown  over  the  whole  thing,  I'll  never  be 
a  lawyer  now,  I've  chosen  a  better  trade,  why  don't  you  congratu- 
late me  ?  They  have  been  patting  me  on  the  back  and  calling  me  a 
brave  boy,  haven't  you  anything  to  say  ? " 

"I'll  get  you  out  of  this  in  the  morning,"  declared  Benson 
shortly. 

"No,  you  won't!"  said  the  young  man  quietly.  "This  is  my  affair. 
You  can't  get  me  out  of  it  unless  I  am  willing  to  be  got  out,  and  I 
won't  be  willing  —  my  mind's  made  up;  in  fact,  it  was  made  up  the 
moment  I  heard  the  news,  only  I  didn't  know  it;  but  I  know  it  now. 
It's  the  sort  of  a  chance  I've  been  looking  for  all  along  to  escape 
from  this.  It's  been  all  nonsense  my  reading  law  ;  but  this,  this  is 
going  to  be  right  in  my  line." 

"Stephen,"  said  Benson  sternly.  "Pardon  me,  but  you  are  talking 

261 


262  THE  LANDRAYS 

like  a  fool.   It's  nothing  to  me  what  you  do,  I   suppose  if  you  get 
shot  I  can  survive  it." 

"So  may  I!"  retorted  the  boy  laughing.  "You  know  there  are 
worse  things  than  that!" 

"You'll  oblige  me  by  being  serious,"  said  Benson  curtly.  "I  am 
thinking  now  of  your  aunt,  you  know  that." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  answered  Stephen,  a  trifle  weary.  "I've  thought 
cf  her,  too,"  he  added  softly. 

"This  will  be  a  serious  matter  to  her,  Stephen;  and  don't  you 
think  that  enough  sorrow  has  entered  into  her  life  already  without 
you  doing  all  you  can  to  add  to  it  ?" 

"Oh,  what's  the  use  of  going  into  that  phase  of  it  to-night,  I've 
thought  of  all  that!" 

"Then  where's  your  love  for  her?"  demanded  Benson. 

"It's  just  as  deep  and  strong  as  it  ever  was! "  said  the  boy  defiantly. 
"You  know  it  is;  but  can't  you  understand  —  I  have  to  go  —  it's 
in  me  to  go.  I  pledge  you  my  word,  I've  made  up  my  mind  a  score  of 
times  not  on  any  account  to  be  led  away  by  my  own  wishes,  but  to 
stick  it  out  here  with  you,  and  perhaps  one  of  these  days  get  where 
you'd  give  me  the  small  end  of  your  practice.  I  am  quite  hopeless, 
you  see;  I  shall  never  be  able  to  stand  alone  in  this  profession.  I'll 
never  fill  the  toes  of  your  shoes  even,  you  see  I'm  not  to  be 
fooled!" 

"You're  doing  very  well,"  interrupted  Benson  quickly.  "Of  course, 
you  are  not  exctly  cut  out  for  the  law  —  " 

"Then  what  in  God's  name  am  I  cut  out  for,  have  you  been  able 
to  discover  that  ?" 

"A  young  man  may  doubt  his  ability,  that  is  natural  enough, 
but  it  argues  nothing;  and  in  your  case  it  is  certainly  no  reason  why 
you  should  throw  your  life,  your  chances  all  away!" 

'If  it  were  not  for  my  Aunt  Virginia  I  should  be  perfectly  happy 
to-night;  but  having  to  go  home  and  tell  her—  "  Stephen  frowned 
and  was  silent. 

"But  you  don't  have  to  go  home  and  tell  her!  That's  the  very 
thing  you  are  not  to  do!" 

The  boy  shook  his  head. 

"I'm  going  to  get  it  over  with  as  soon  as  possible." 

"To-morrow  morning  —  to-night  —  we'll  go  and  see  McKeever, 
and  arrange  it  with  him.  Come,  be  reasonable!"  urged  Benson. 

"No,  we  won't  see  him,  not  for  that,  anyhow!"  retorted  the  boy. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-ONE  263 

"Look  here,  what  do  you  suppose  McKeever's  after  ?  He  hopes 
to  get  a  commission,  and  you  are  helping  him  along  in  his  ambi- 
tion!" 

"Quite  right.  He  should  get  a  commission,  he's  gone  ahead  and 
done  something  worth  while,  why  shouldn't  he  get  what  he  wants  ? 
He's  the  biggest  man  in  town  to-night!"  cried  the  boy  with  frank 
enthusiasm. 

"He's  a  needy  adventurer,  Stephen,  a  man  of  no  character;  who 
has  made  a  failure  of  his  life  solely  because  he  was  a  man  of  no 
character." 

"Well,  call  him  what  you  like;  but  it  isn't  helping  me  to  thmK 
what  I'll  tell  Aunt  Virginia.  That's  the  only  thing  I've  got  to  worry 

over!'' 

"I  tell  you  I  can  arrange  it  with  McKeever ! "  insisted  Benson. 
"You  will  just  drop  out.  You  are  only  committed  in  so  far  as  you 
foolishly  gave  your  promise  to  join  his  company  ;  you  were  excited, 
carried  away,  and  did  not  stop  to  think  of  the  consequences.  Now 
you  have  had  time  to  cool  off,  and  you  are  seeing  in  what  direction 

your  duty  lies."  -r  T  i    j  » 

"No,  I'm  not  going  to  appear  ridiculous,  or  as  if  I  hadn  t  known 
my  own  mind!"  said  the  boy  doggedly,  but  secretly  he  was  rather 
alarmed  by  the  lawyer's  opposition,  and  he  feared  that  he  might  take 
steps  in  the  matter  which  would  humiliate  him. 

"I  suppose  you  had  rather  appear  merely  ungrateful,  observec 
Benson  contemptuously. 

"Well,  that's  all  in  the  family.  Understand,  please,  you  are  r 
see  McKeever,  and  you  are  not  to  say  anything  to  him  if  you  chance 
to  meet  him.  Please,  now—  I  don't  want  you  to!  It's  my  affair  — 

"He  had  no  business  to  accept  you."  Benson  placed  his  hand  on 
the  young  man's  shoulder,  and  let  it  rest  there  with  a  kindly  pressure. 
"Don't  you  be  a  fool,  Stephen!"  he  urged  gently.  "All  you  have  to 
think  about  is  your  Aunt  Virginia,  her  feelings,  her  anxiety,  a 
suffering   if  you  enlist!" 

The  boy  rounded  his  shoulder  at  the  touch,  and  looked  up  sulle 

into  his  friend's  face.  . 

"WThat's  the  use  of  your  working  yourself  into  a  state  ot  mind  ovei 
this!  I  tell  you  it's  settled,"  he  declared,  in  a  tone  that  he  mean; 
should  stop  further  argument. 

"Think  of  her!" 

"I  tell  you  it's  settled.  Let  me  stay  here  with  you  to-night,  anc 


264  THE  LANDRAYS 

morrow  you  drive  out  and  tell  her  what  I've  done,  that's  where  I 

lose  my  grip." 

"No,  I'll  have  no  part  in  breaking  that  news  to  her;  but  you  stay 
here  to-night,  and  in  the  morning  we'll  hunt  up  McKeever." 

But  Stephen  only  shook  his  head. 

"I  thought  you'd  help  me,"  he  said,  with  much  dejection  of  manner. 

"Not  in  this,  not  in  the  way  you  wish  me  to." 

But  Benson  was  fast  losing  his  temper.  The  boy's  selfishness,  and 
stupid  determination,  exasperated  him  to  the  last  degree.  He  was 
feeling  infinite  pity  for  Virginia,  who  for  years  had  done  nothing  but 
deny  herself  for  this  ingrate,  who  was  proving  himself  so  unworthy 
of  her  love. 

"I  didn't  think  it  of  you,  Stephen,"  he  said  at  last,  as  much  in  sor- 
row as  in  anger.  "  I  looked  for  better  things  from  you,  I  did 
indeed!" 

The  boy  burned  to  vindicate  himself.  He  felt  that  all  his  motives 
were  being  misjudged;  he  wanted  Benson  to  understand  just  why  he 
had  enlisted. 

"Look  here!"  he  burst  out.  "I've  fooled  my  time  away  here  dig- 
ging into  your  law  books  just  to  please  my  Aunt  Virginia,  but  it's  got 
to  stop  ;  there's  no  use  —  no  sense  in  it!  I  can  only  be  of  use  to  hei 
by  being  of  use  to  myself  in  my  own  way!  I  can't  think  with  her 
brains  nor  hope  with  her  hopes  ;  I've  got  my  own  hopes,  my  own 
sense  of  things,  and  they  don't  fit  with  hers  —  that's  all  there  is  to  it! 
Of  course,  it's  going  to  be  a  wrench  to  her,  it's  going  to  be  a  wrench 
to  me;  maybe  you  don't  think  I  love  her  ?  I  tell  you  I  do!  She's  been 
all  the  mother  I  have  ever  had  —  you  know  that  —  and  because  of 
her  I've  never  missed  anything  in  my  life,  but  she's  got  an  awfully 
strong  will;  she'll  make  endless  sacrifices  of  herself,  but  her  opinions 
are  like  iron,  and  she's  never  been  able  to  see  what  I  see!  I've  told 
her  all  along  that  I  was  wasting  my  time  here  with  you;  but  she's  set 
her  heart  on  my  having  a  profession;  nothing  I  can  say  moves  her, 
you  know  that  —  you  know  what  I  say  is  all  so!"  he  finished  in  an 
injured  tone. 

"This  is  all  beside  the  question,"  said  Benson  coldly. 

"No,  it  isn't!  The  wrench  has  got  to  come.  I've  got  to  have  my 
own  head  in  choosing  for  myself,  and  this  lucky  war  comes  just  in 
time.  It's  my  one  chance  to  get  away  and  get  started  on  my  own  hook 
decently,  and  I'm  going  to  enlist!  Now  we  won't  discuss  that  side  of 
the  case  again,  please.  It's  settled." 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-ONE  265 

"I  was  merely  going  to  propose  that  I  take  your  place,"  said  Ben- 
son quietly. 

"You  take  my  place  —  where  ?"  demanded  the  boy. 

"In  McKeever's  Company." 

"Well,  you  are  funny!"  laughed  the  boy. 

"I'm  quite  in  earnest,"  answered  Benson  stiffly. 

"No,  no!  You  don't  mean  that!" 

"I'm  quite  in  earnest,"  repeated  Benson. 

"Do  you  mean  you'd  enlist  just  to  keep  me  from  enlisting?"  in- 
quired Stephen  incredulously. 

"That's  what  I  said." 

But  Stephen  waived  this  aside. 

"Oh,  you  come,  too!"  he  cried.  "It  will  do  you  a  world  of  good, 
it's  just  the  sort  of  thing  you  need,  Mr.  Benson!" 

Benson  frowned. 

"I  said  I'd  go  in  your  place." 

"Well,  that's  nonsense,"  objected  the  boy. 

"Very  well,  then.  There  is  nothing  more  to  be  said.  Only  this, 
if  you  don't  do  what  it  is  your  manifest  duty  to  do,  what  your  sense 
of  gratitude  should  make  you  do  willingly  and  gladly,  I'm  done 
with  you!  and  this  war  won't  last  always.  You'll  be  coming  back  one 
of  these  days,  it  may  be  within  a  month  or  so,  and  you  won't 
find  me  the  friend  I  have  tried  to  be,  and  am  still  willing  to  be,  if  you 
will  only  let  me  serve  you!" 

At  his  words  Stephen  rose  slowly  from  his  chair,  and  took  up  his 
hat  from  the  table.  His  face  was  white. 

"I  may  even  be  able  to  stand  that,"  he  said  in  a  voice  he 
vainly  strove  to  render  firm  ;  then  not  daring  to  trust  himself 
further  he  turned  quickly  to  the  door,  and  hurried  from  the 
room. 

He  was  deeply  hurt,  so  hurt  that  he  did  not  realize  where  he  was 
going  until  he  found  himself  striding  along  the  deserted  country  road 
in  the  direction  of  his  home. 

"And  he  didn't  call  me  back!"  he  thought  bitterly.  "He  let  me  go 
and  never  said  a  word!"  Then  his  mood  changed.  "I've  accepted  too 
many  favours  from  him,  if  he  has  begun  to  keep  count  of  them."  But 
he  could  not  understand  how  Benson  could  have  so  quickly  ended  a 
friendship  which  he  had  come  to  regard  as  one  of  the  immutable 
relations  of  his  life. 

It  was  almost  midnight  when  be  reached  home.  There  was  a  faint 


266  THE  LANDRAYS 

light  burning  in  the  hall,  and  the  library  door  stood  open.  His 
aunt  had  waited  up  for  him. 

"Is  that  you,  Stephen  ?"  she  called  softly,  as  he  closed  and  locked 
the  front  door. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  her,  and  then  as  he  entered  the  library,  "I'm 
sorry  you  waited  up  for  me.  If  I'd  thought  you  were  going  to,  I'd 
have  gotten  home  sooner." 

"Surely  you  didn't  walk  home,  Stephen!"  she  said.  She  saw  that 
his  shoes  were  muddy. 

"  But  I  did  though.  I  went  to  see  Mr.  Benson,  and  when  I  left  him. 
every  one  was  gone  from  out  this  way,  so  I  had  to  walk." 

He  slipped  into  a  chair  at  her  side. 

"Are  you  very  tired,  dear?"  she  asked. 

"No,  it  was  nothing,  why  did  you  wait  up  for  me  ?  You  know  I 
might  have  stayed  at  Mr.  Benson's  all  night." 

A  shadow  crossed  his  face.  The  lawyer's  words  came  back  to  him. 
He  felt  that  he  had  been  cast  off,  that  that  relation  had  suddenly 
ceased  to  be;  and  he  was  both  hurt  and  puzzled  by  the  readiness 
with  which  Benson  had  seemingly  dismissed  him  from  his  regard 
and  liking.  He  was  most  undemonstrative  himself,  but  until  that 
night  he  had  as  firmly  believed  in  Benson's  affection  for  him  as  he 
had  believed  in  any  other  tangible  fact  of  his  existence;  more  than 
this,  he  cherished  a  great  liking  for  the  lawyer;  he  had  been  proud 
to  consider  him  his  friend.  He  did  not  know  that  Benson's  concern 
for  him,  and  interest  in  him,  was  but  one  of  the  many  manifestations 
of  his  love  for  Virginia  Landray. 

"Was  there  much  excitement?"  asked  Virginia,  after  a  short 
silence. 

"Yes,  a  good  deal.  There  were  speeches  at  the  court-house  and  a 
lot  of  committees  were  appointed  to  do  a  lot  of  things,"  he  explained 
vaguely. 

"Who  addressed  the  meeting  ?  Did  Mr.  Benson  ?"  she  questioned. 
She  knew  he  had  more  to  tell  her,  but  she  knew  he  would  tell  it  in 
his  own  way. 

"I  don't  know,  I  didn't  go  in.  There  was  more  going  on  outside." 
and  then  he  fell  silent  again.  He  was  thinking  of  Marian. 

"What  was  the  excitement,  Stephen  ?"  Virginia  asked. 

"Captain  McKeever  was  enlisting  men.  You  see,  President  Lin- 
coln has  issued  a  call  for  men  —  " 

"Did  many  enlist?" 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-ONE  267 

"Yes,  a  good  many,  a  hundred,  I  should  say." 

"But  you  didn't  wish  to,  Stephen?"  she  said,  searching  his  face 
anxiously. 

"Why  do  you  think  that  ?"  he  asked,  to  gain  time. 

She  did  not  answer  him  directly. 

"I  am  glad  you  have  come  back  to  me,"  she  said  tenderly,  "for  I 
shan't  let  you  go  into  town  again  until  the  excitement  is  past.  It  is 
no  place  for  a  hot-headed  boy  who  might  easily  be  led  into  folly, 
and  you  will  stay  quietly  here  with  me,  won't  you  ?  Sam  can  go  in  to- 
morrow and  bring  out  your  books.  That  will  be  the  best  way;  won't 
it,  dear  ?" 

The  boy  set  his  teeth  in  his  endeavour  to  control  the  workings  of 
his  face,  which  he  felt  must  betray  him. 

"I  suppose  it  seemed  for  the  moment  the  only  thing  left  for  men 
to  do,"  Virginia  went  on  gently.  "But  the  realities  of  war  are  so 
dreadful,  that  if  we  would  only  stop  to  think,  I  am  sure  a  better, 
a  wiser  way  could  be  found  to  settle  our  difficulties." 

He  moved  restlessly  in  his  chair. 

"Oh,  this  won't  be  much  of  a  war,  Aunt  Virginia.  President  Lin- 
coln only  wants  men  for  ninety  days,  I  suppose  he  knows  what's 
needed.  The  fellows  who  enlisted  to-night  will  probably  go  to  Wash- 
ington, or  maybe  they  won't  get  any  further  away  than  Columbus, 
where  there's  to  be  a  big  military  camp  established;  but  the  enlisting 
was  sort  of  interesting  to  watch,  everybody  was  cheering  and  there 
was  a  lot  of  enthusiasm  and  noise." 

How  was  he  going  to  tell  her  of  what  he  had  done!  He  had  felt 
the  excitement  himself  as  an  intoxicating  draught  that  carried  for- 
getfulness  with  it.  He  had  gone  to  extremes  of  feeling  that  night  of 
which  he  had  hardly  thought  himself  capable.  Men  had  slapped 
him  on  the  back,  telling  him  he  was  a  fine  fellow,  a  brave  fellow, 
and  every  inch  a  Landray!  But  more  than  all,  Marian  had 
smiled  upon  him  with  love  and  pride  and  hero-worship;  but  how 
was  he  to  make  his  Aunt  Virginia  understand  this,  or  the  need  he 
had  of  the  very  experience  that  was  to  take  him  from  her.  She 
must  have  realized  something  of  what  was  passing  in  his  mind,  for 
she  said  in  sudden  alarm: 

"You  are  not  telling  me  all,  Stephen  —  you  are  keeping  back 
something! 

And  he  answered  her  with  a  look  so  miserable,  that  she  was  in- 
stantl)  convinced  that  this  was  so. 


z68  THE  LANDRAYS 

"Dear  Stephen,  listen  to  me,  you  must  stay  quietly  here  and 
finish  fitting  yourself  for  your  profession.  You  will  have  responsi- 
bilities and  cares  enough,  poor  boy,  just  here,  you  need  not  go  away 
from  home  to  seek  them;  the  family  fortunes  need  rebuilding,  and 
you  must  do  that.  They  have  been  wrecked  by  just  such  folly  as  this, 
by  this  love  for  adventure.  You  must  be  very  sane  and  reasonable, 
you  can't  give  way  to  these  impulses;  don't  you  see  it  this  way, 
too?" 

Her  words  did  not  shake  his  resolution  in  the  least,  though  they 
made  him  profoundly  wretched,  since  he  despaired  of  her  ever  com- 
prehending his  distaste  for  the  career  she  had  mapped  out  for  him. 
Yet  it  seemed  to  him  a  most  brutal  thing  to  do  to  even  try  and  ex- 
plain this  to  her. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  with  a  gulp.  "But  you'd  better  know  it  now 
—  I've  enlisted!" 

The  hand  she  had  been  resting  on  his  arm,  fell  at  her  side.  There 
was  a  ghastly  pause. 

"Stephen!  Stephen  —  how  could  you  ?"  she  cried. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  repeated,  and  there  was  such  depth  of  misery  in 
his  tone  that  she  forbore  to  reproach  him. 

"Does  Mr.  Benson  know  what  you  have  done?"  she  asked.  As 
in  all  her  difficulties,  she  turned  now  as  then,  instinctively  to  the  one 
person  who  had  always  been  equal  to  the  occasion. 

"Yes,"  said  the  boy,  "I  told  him;"  but  his  face  clouded. 

"What  did  he  say?  Didn't  he  think  you  had  done  very  wrong?" 
questioned  Virginia. 

Stephen  nodded. 

"What  did  he  propose?" 

"Never  mind,  Aunt  Virginia,  he  proposed  all  sorts  of  things,  but 
nothing  that  fits  this  case.  I'm  a  member  of  Captain  McKeever's 
Company,  and  I  shall  remain  a  member  as  long  as  there's  any  need 
of  it.  I've  given  my  word,  and  I've  put  my  name  on  the  muster-roll. 
I  can't  take  back  my  word,  and  I  can't  take  off  my  name;  but  we 
don't  know  yet  how  much  of  a  war  there  is  going  to  be,  no  one 
thinks  it  is  going  to  amount  to  much.  I  wish  you  wouldn't  take  it  so 
seriously!" 

"Won't  you  tell  me  what  Mr.  Benson  proposed,  Stephen  ?" 

"There  is  no  use  thinking  of  him,  Aunt  Virginia,  he  can  do 
nothing,  for  I  shouldn't  let  him.  And  anyway,  we  have  had  a  row 
about  this  very  matter." 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-ONE  269 

"You  have  quarrelled  with  Mr.  Benson!" 

"If  you  choose  to  call  it  that  —  yes.  Only  I  had  rather  not  talk 
about  it." 

But  there  was  one  thing  more  he  wished  to  tell  her;  and  this  was 
what  had  passed  between  Marian  and  him.  He  knew  it  would  please 
her  if  possible,  even  less  than  the  news  of  his  enlistment;  but  he 
deemed  it  well  to  get  it  all  over  with  at  once,  then  they  could  adjust 
themselves  the  sooner  to  these  new  conditions  which  he  had  so  sud- 
denly created. 

"What  else  is  there,  Stephen?"  Virginia  asked. 

"How  do  you  know  there  is  anything  else  ?"  he  inquired. 

"I  can  always  tell;  what  is  it  ?" 

"Haven't  I  told  you  enough  for  to-night?"  he  said. 

"I  would  like  to  know  all." 

"Do  you  know  Mr.  Benson's  uncle?"  he  asked. 

"What  about  him?" 

"Well,  do  you  know  his  wife  ?" 

"Slightly." 

He  gave   her   an   embarrassed   smile  that  she   did  not    under- 

O 

stand. 

"We  Landrays  are  a  proud  lot;  aren't  we  ?  Her  husband  could  buy 
us  out  and  never  feel  it  —  pay  all  our  debts  into  the  bargain,  too, 
and  yet  you  don't  know  him  or  his  wife,  Aunt  Virginia." 

"There  is  no  reason  why  I  should  know  them." 

"But  what  have  you  against  them  ?"  he  persisted. 

"I  have  nothing  against  them  ;  they  are  very  worthy  people  in 
their  way." 

"Oh,  Aunt  Virginia!"  cried  the  boy.  "That's  the  last  thing  you 
can  say  of  any  one!  I  wish  you  knew  her" 

"Knew  whom,  Stephen  ?" 

"Well,  Mrs.  Benson,  and  Miss  Benson  —  Marian  —  she's  the 
prettiest  girl  in  town." 

"Has  Mr.  Benson  permitted  you  to  form  an  attachment  of  which 
I  knew  nothing  ?  Did  he  take  you  to  the  house  of  those  people  for 
that?" 

"Those  people!"  scoffed  the  boy.  "I  wish  you  would  be  a  little 
more  generous,  Aunt  Virginia!  It's  unfair  to  judge  her  like  that  ; 
and  Mr.  Benson  don't  know  anything  about  it  anyhow!" 

"What  do  you  wish  me  to  think,  Stephen;  for  I  suppose  I  am  to 
take  this  as  a  confession  of  some  sort." 


2;o  THE  LANDRAYS 

"I've  known  them  —  I've  known  Marian,  for  four  or  five  years," 
muttered  the  boy  sheepishly. 

"Well,  what  of  that?"  with  some  displeasure. 

"You  don't  approve?"  he  asked  gloomily. 

"No  —  if  you  wish  me  to  understand  that  you  have  committed 
yourself,  I  don't  approve.  There  is  every  reason  why  I  should  not." 

"I  wish  you  did,"  he  said,  "for  it's  settled  —  about  Marian,  I 
mean." 

Yet  later  when  he  went  to  his  room,  he  had  the  grace  to  be  bitterly 
disappointed  with  himself,  and  with  the  situation. 

He  felt  that  they  had  grown  strangely  apart.  That  the  war,  and 
Marian,  and  his  own  act,  had  come  between  them,  and  that  in  spite 
of  his  real  affection  for  his  aunt,  the  old  frank  relation  could  never 
again  exist. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-TWO 

MCKEEVER'S  company  left  Benson  the  day  the  Confeder- 
ate Cabinet  in  session  at  Montgomery,  Alabama,  greeted 
with  jeers  the  news  that  President  Lincoln  had  issued  a 
call  for  seventy-five  thousand  men;  but  neither  its  mirth  nor  the 
scenes  attending  the  departure  of  McKeever's  handful,  in  any  way 
foreshadowed  the  struggle  to  which  the  nation  was  committed. 
McKeever  hustled  his  men  into  the  cars  reserved  for  them,  and 
the  crowd,  some  thousands  strong,  that  had  assembled  to  see  them 
off,  slowly  dispersed.  During  the  four  grim  years  that  followed,  the 
town  grew  familiar  with  these  departures,  just  as  it  did  with  the 
return  of  the  remnants  of  companies  that  had  gone  forth,  and  men 
came  and  went  in  this  new  profession  of  theirs,  and  only  those 
immediately  concerned  in  their  fortunes  took  note  of  them. 

As  they  left  the  town  behind,  Stephen  was  conscious  only  of  a 
sense  of  freedom.  He  had  cast  aside  the  burdens  that  had  oppressed 
him.  He  conceived  that  in  the  career  he  had  chosen  there  would  be 
no  perplexing  problems,  no  horror  of  the  law.  His  one  fear  was 
that  the  war  would  soon  end;  and  each  time  this  possibility  was 
advanced  in  his  hearing,  his  heart  sank  within  him. 

But  if  Stephen  was  disturbed  by  the  prospect  of  the  war's 
abrupt  ending,  there  were  those  who  did  not  share  in  this  optimistic 
view  that  so  widely  prevailed.  Among  these  was  Tom  Benson;  who 
as  soon  as  the  call  for  men  came,  made  ready  to  cast  cannon  for  the 
government.  When  Newton  Bendy  heard  of  this,  he  hurried  down  to 
the  shops.  He'd  tell  Tom  a  thing  or  two;  did  the  fool  think  the  coun- 
try'd  waste  any  time  on  those  lunatics  down  South  ?  The  war  would 
be  over  with  by  the  middle  of  summer;  then  who'd  want  his  cannon  ? 

"And  you  think  that  the  war  will  end  in  two  or  three  months  ?' 
said  Benson,  when  he  had  heard  what  Bendy  had  to  say;  and  he 
grinned  in  large  pity  of  the  little  man.  "Well,  think  it  hard  —  if  it's 
any  comfort  to  you;  man;  you  see  no  further  than  the  tip  of  your  nose. 


272  THE  LANDRAYS 

You'll  never  earn  your  salt  as  a  prophet;  this  is  war  if  there  ever  was 
war." 

"All  right,  Tom  Benson!"  sputtered  Bendy.  "If  I  want  to  see  no 
further  than  that,  it  suits  me  well  enough  not  to.  But  I'll  tell  you  one 
thing;  you're  doing  your  best  to  send  this  concern  straight  to  hell. 
You're  going  to  make  cannon,  are  you  ?  When  do  you  expect  to  use 
*em,  next  Fourth  of  July,  maybe.  You're  wasting  good  stock,  on 
which  you'll  never  clear  a  dollar's  profit.  I'll  not  stand  for  the  spend- 
ing of  one  cent  on  such  damn  foolishness." 

"I'll  get  it  somewhere  else,"  said  Benson  sourly. 

"Not  on  the  firm's  name,  you  won't;  mind  you  that!"  shouted 
Mr.  Bently  flying  into  a  rage. 

"The  firm!"  sneered  Benson,  elevating  his  bushy  eyebrows. 
"Look  here,  don't  you  think  the  firm's  lasted  quite  long  enough? 
It's  been  my  head  against  your  jaw.  It's  a  hell  of  a  pardnership!" 
he  thrust  his  hands  deep  in  his  trousers'  pockets.  "Come,  which  shall 
it  be,  do  I  step  out,  or  do  you  ?  One  of  us  has  got  to  go!" 

"I  guess  you'll  buy,  Tom  Benson,"  said  the  postmaster,  with  a 
shrewd  shake  of  the  head.  "I'll  not  have  you  moving  across  the  street 
to  set  up  shop  under  my  nose." 

Benson  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  aloud  at  this. 

"You  got  a  heap  of  confidence  in  me.  That's  a  pretty  way  to  talk 
to  your  son-in-law,  ain't  it  now  ? "  he  said. 

"You  ain't  of  my  choosing,  Tom,  I  never  made  any  bones  about 
that,"  retorted  Bently. 

His  candour  must  have  agreed  perfectly  with  the  mechanic's  rude 
sense  of  humour,  for  his  grin  widened. 

"Nobody'll  ever  accuse  you  of  saying  anything  less  than  you 
think,"  he  said.  "Well,  if  I  moved  across  the  street,  I  could  show 
you  how  shops  ought  to  be  run." 

"I  ain't  so  sure  there's  anything  I  can  learn  of  you!  I  was  a  me- 
chanic when  you  was  a  nursing  baby." 

"About  then,  I  should  say,"  answered  Benson.  "But  the  world's 
slipped  forward  a  cog  or  two  since  then." 

"Better  buy  me  out,  Tom!"  urged  Bently.  "It's  your  chance  to 
let  the  world  know  how  smart  a  fellow  you  are!" 

"You'll  sell  then  ?  It  ain't  all  talk  ?"  said  Benson. 

"Make  me  your  offer,  you  know  what  the  shops  are  doing; 
make  me  a  fair  offer  and  I'll  leave  you  alone  here,  since  that  is 
what  you  want,  to  play  hell  with  the  business! " 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-TWO  273 

"You'll  have  my  offer  inside  of  two  hours,"  said  the  Yankee 
mechanic  coolly. 

"Make  it  cash,  Tom,  I  want  none  of  your  paper;  people  will  be 
building  fires  with  it  inside  of  a  twelve  month/'  he  jeered. 

Benson  turned  on  his  heel  and  went  back  through  the  shops  to 
the  pattern-room.  From  his  desk  there,  which  he  unlocked,  he  took 
a  device  in  polished  wood  and  steel  and  nickle.  This  he  slipped  under 
his  coat,  for  it  was  too  bulky  to  carry  in  his  pocket;  then  he  went 
straight  to  his  nephew's  office,  where  he  wasted  no  time  in  explanation. 

"I  want  to  buy  Bently  out,  Jake,"  he  said  briefly.  "I've  got  money 
enough  put  by  to  meet  his  price.  Now'll  you  go  in  with  me  ?  for  I 
must  have  a  partner  with  capital.  Wait  a  minute  —  I  want  you  should 
see  this  before  you  give  me  your  answer;"  and  he  placed  the  mech- 
anism he  had  brought  from  the  pattern  room  in  the  lawyer's  hands. 

"Do  you  know  what  you  got  there,  Jake?"  he  asked,  after  a 
moment's  silence. 

"It's  the  stock  and  breech  of  a  gun,"  said  the  lawyer,  turning  it 
over. 

"It's  a  repeating  rifle,  Jake  —  my  own  invention,  and  even  if  I  do 
say  it,  it's  the  greatest  weapon  ever  made!  Put  that  in  the  hands  of 
one  Yankee,  and  he'll  be  the  match  for  twenty  rebels;  do  you  think 
the  government's  going  to  stand  off  when  I  get  it  in  shape  to  offer  ? 
I  sha'n't  be  able  to  fill  the  contracts!  Look  here,  it  loads  with  this 
special  cartridge  —  automatic  —  do  you  see  ?  And  feeds  from  the 
stock  where  ten  rounds  will  be  carried,  and  them  ten  rounds  will  be 
available  in  almost  as  many  seconds.  Jake,  once  I  begin  to  manu- 
facture them  rifles,  secession's  got  its  death  blow;  nothing  will 
make  good  the  difference  between  a  muzzle  loading  musket  and  that 
weapon!  Once  that's  in  the  hands  of  the  Yankees,  they  will  be  hunt- 
ing Jeff  Davis  in  his  own  back-yard  —  nothing'll  stop  'em!" 

"But  what  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?"  asked  Benson. 

"Join  me  in  making  that  arm!  I'll  ask  you  for  no  money  now, 
all  I  want  is  that  you  should  stand  ready  to  put  in  a  few  thousands 
—  say  eight  or  ten  —  in  case  we're  slow  in  realizing  on  our  contracts.** 

"How  soon  will  these  demands  begin  ?" 
"Not  under  five  or  six  months." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  lawyer.  "You  can  close  with  Mr.  Bently 
while  he's  in  the  humour  to  sell;  later  we  can  draw  up  papers  cov- 
ering the  partnership  —  there's  no  hurry  about  that." 

And  before  the  two  hours  for  which  he  had  stipulated  had  elapsed, 


274  THE  LANDRAYS 

Tom  Benson  had  closed  with  Mr.  Bently,  and  rather  less  than  twenty 
minutes  later  he  was  back  at  the  shops  and  had  given  orders  to  have 
the  old  sign  which  read  " Bently 's  Foundry"  painted  out,  and  "The 
Benson  Iron  Works,"  the  new  firm  name,  under  which  he  intended 
to  continue  the  business,  painted  in  its  stead. 

Before  Stephen  left  Camp  Jackson,  near  Columbus,  where  he  was 
mustered  in,  he  was  displaying  so  great  an  aptitude  for  his  work,  that 
McKeever,  now  advanced  to  a  colonelcy,  urged  his  claims  to  such 
good  purpose,  that  when  he  was  wounded  in  a  skirmish  at  Romney,  j 
Virginia,  and  was  sent  home  on  sick  leave,  a  lieutenant's  commission 
shortly  followed  him  thither. 

His  first  home-coming  his  Aunt  remembered  long  afterward  with 
entire  satisfaction.  Their  little  estrangement  was  forgotten;  he  was 
frank  and  affectionate  as  he  had  always  been. 

He  had  developed  wonderfully;  his  shoulders  had  broadened  and 
he  was  brown  and  muscular,  the  boy  had  become  a  man.  He  had 
quite  lost  his  air  of  troubled  preoccupation  born  of  his  doubt  and 
foreboding  of  the  future,  for  his  future  no  longer  troubled  him. 

Virginia  made  much  of  him.,  and  he  accepted  her  solicitude  and 
Jane's,  with  infinite  good-nature. 

"A  fellow  don't  have  any  chance  with  you  two!"  he  told  them 
laughingly.  "Especially  when  his  arm's  tied  up  as  mine  is." 

"But,  dear,  this  is  all  we  can  do!"  said  Virginia  sighing,  and  ad- 
justing his  bandages  with  tender  caressing  fingers.  "When  we  heard 
that  your  regiment  had  been  in  battle,  it  was  just  as  if  you  were  the 
only  one  —  as  if  there  were  not  thousands  of  others!" 

The  one  disturbing  element  in  Virginia's  happiness  was  Stephen's 
devotion  to  Marian  Benson.  It  was  little  short  of  tragic  that  this 
sturdy  handsome  fellow  should  be  determined  to  throw  himself  away 
on  Tom  Benson's  daughter.  Her  prejudice  here  she  felt  was  not  alto- 
gether groundless,  for  Benson  at  her  request  had  brought  his  cousin 
to  the  farm  to  call;  the  meeting  had  not  been  very  successful  how- 
ever; Marian  had  been  embarrassed  and  ill  at  ease,  and  Virginia  had 
not  been  able  to  see  in  her  at  all  what  Stephen  saw.  With  this  one 
tentative  attempt  at  an  acquaintance  her  efforts  in  that  direction 
had  ceased. 

Stephen  had  been  delighted  when  he  heard  that  Marian  had 
driven  out  to  see  Virginia.  He  heard  this  from  Marian  herself,  Vir- 
ginia had  not  mentioned  it. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-TWO  275 

"Why  you  never  said  Marian  had  called,"  he  told  Virginia,  almost 
reproachfully. 

"Didn't  I,  dear?"  she  asked  drily. 

"No;  and  Marian  only  chanced  to  mention  it  to-day.  Didn't  you 
think  her  very  pretty?"  he  questioned  eagerly. 

"Yes,  she  is  certainly  pretty,"  agreed  Virginia,  but  without 
enthusiasm. 

"The  prettiest  girl  in  Benson  • —  and  quite  as  nice  as  she  is  pretty! 
I  wonder  you  didn't  tell  me  that  she  had  been  here;  I  hope  you'll  see 
lots  of  her,  Aunt  Virginia." 

"You  know,  dear,  I've  quite  gotten  out  of  the  way  of  meeting 
people." 

His  face  clouded  at  this. 

"But  I'm  sure  you'd  like  her  mother;  and  Mr.  Benson's  a  very 
superior  sort  of  man.  He  showed  me  an  invention  of  his  to-day,  a 
rifle,  if  he  can  get  it  accepted  by  the  government  he'll  make  a 
fortune.  It's  certainly  a  wonderful  thing." 

Virginia  heard  him  in  silence,  and  then  abruptly  changed  the  sub- 
ject. He  was  puzzled,  but  remembered  that  Marian  had  been 
equally  reticent.  He  decided  that  for  some  reason  they  had  not  gotten 
on  very  well  together,  and  that  the  friendship  which  he  had  confi- 
dently looked  for  the  moment  they  met,  was  even  further  off  than  if 
they  had  not  met  at  all.  But  he  took  comfort  in  the  thought  that  when 
he  and  Marian  were  married,  the  relation  between  her  and  Virginia 
would  change  entirely;  she  would  be  of  the  family  then.  There  was 
Harriett,  a  stranger  might  have  found  it  difficult  to  say  whether 
she  was  Jane's  daughter  or  Virginia's.  The  latter  seemed  to  feel 
an  equal  interest  in  her  with  her  mother.  This  was  all  so  character- 
istic of  his  aunt,  that  he  felt  once  they  were  married,  her  love 
would  go  out  to  Marian  in  the  same  way. 

It  was  during  the  continuance  of  his  furlough  that  Virginia 
determined  to  sell  the  mill.  It  had  taken  Benson  six  months  to 
find  a  purchaser  for  the  property,  but  he  was  at  last  successful; 
and  Stephen  drove  Virginia  into  town  the  day  the  deed  was 

"You  are  satisfied  to  have  the  sale  made,  Stephen?"  Benson 
inquired. 

"Certainly,"  said  the  young  man  a  little  defiantly,  the  ready 
money  is  better  than  the  property." 

"I  dare  say."  responded  the  lawyer. 


276  THE  LANDRAYS 

In  the  afternoon,  Benson  drove  to  the  mill  with  the  new  owner. 
Afterward  he  strolled  up  to  the  house  to  see  Virginia. 

"I  have  just  been  going  over  the  accounts,"  she  told  him,  a  trifle 
ruefully,  and  held  up  an  inky  forefinger. 

"I  was  aware  that  the  sale  of  the  mill  would  not  do  all  you  hoped 
it  might;  that  it  would  not  clear  off  the  debts  even.  I  can't  bear  to  see 
you  continue  this  useless  struggle;  it  hurts  me  as  nothing  else  has  ever 
hurt  me.  I  am  proposing  nothing  unusual  —  men  go  to  the  aid  of  other 
men  —  business  is  not  entirely  a  matter  of  calculation,  sentiment 
does  enter  into  it;  I  want  to  make  this  situation  easy  for  you;  let 
me  clear  up  those  debts,  then  you  can  put  this  money  in  the  bank." 

"No,"  she  said  quietly. 

He  left  his  chair  and  took  a  turn  of  the  room. 

"Have  you  forgotten  what  I  once  told  you,  Virginia  ?"  he  asked, 
pausing  and  facing  her. 

"You  were  not  to  mention  that  to  me  again." 

"Have  I  spoken  of  it  only  in  words,  Virginia  ?"  he  asked. 

"You  have  been  —  most  considerate  always,"  she  said  guardedly. 

"You  did  not  think  that  I  had  forgotten,  Virginia  —  or  that  I  had 
ceased  to  care  ? "  he  said. 

"I  hoped  you  had." 

"There  is  not  an  hour  of  the  day  that  you  are  out  of  my  thoughts, 
you  have  given  me  every  decent  impulse  I  have  known  —  you  have 
been  more  to  me  than  I  can  ever  tell  you!  You  must  hear  me  —  you 
must  know  how  I  love  you  —  it  is  no  matter  of  yesterday  or  the  day 
before  —  for  years  now  I  have  thought  only  of  you,  Virginia!  Show 
some  mercy  —  let  me  think  that  there  is  some  hope."  He  looked  at 
her  imploringly,  but  her  face  had  only  hardened  as  he  went  on, 
there  was  no  sign  of  the  pity  he  implored.  He  did  not  wait  for  her 
to  speak.  "I  have  been  patient  —  I  have  waited  —  I  have  hoped, 
that  you  might  relent;  but  we  seem  to  be  drifting  further  and  further 
apart.  I  see  you  oppressed  and  burdened;  I  find  you  struggling  with 
cares  and  a  situation  you  are  not  fitted  to  meet,  and  which  I  can  so 
quickly  remedy;  but  you  will  accept  nothing  from  me  even  as  a  friend 
—  that  is  the  bitterest  part  of  it;  I  seem  powerless  to  help  you!  If  you 
would  only  let  me  —  that  would  be  something!  You  leave  me  only 
the  one  thing  to  do  —  to  ask  you  again  to  be  my  wife.  I  know  —  I 
know,"  he  put  out  his  hand,  imposing  silence.  "Your  struggle  is  as 
hopeless  as  it  is  unnecessary,  the  condition  you  are  trying  to  fight 
off  is  older  than  you  know-— it  had  its  beginning  before  Stephen 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-TWO  277 

and  Bush  went  West;  they  felt  it  coming  —  that  is  the  real  reason 
they  went  —  and  what  can  you  do  but  wear  your  life  out  to  no  pur- 
pose! Be  reasonable,  and  escape  from  a  condition  you  can  not  meet!" 

"I  can't  escape  from  it  that  way." 

'* Listen  to  me,  Virginia!"  he  said,  with  gentle  firmness.  "I  love 
you  —  you  must  marry  me." 

"  I  shall  never  marry  —  such  a  thing  is  impossible." 

"No,  not  impossible,"  he  replied,  doggedly  determined  to  keep  it 
before  her  as  a  possibility.  "Why  should  we  wear  out  our  lives.  I 
might  have  struggled  against  my  love  instead  of  living  for  it;  but  the 
result  would  have  been  the  same.  I  should  have  ended  here,  as  now, 
trying  to  tell  you  what  you  are  to  me,  how  empty  my  life  is  without 
you;  and  to  think  that  I  have  failed  so  miserably  in  the  one  great 
purpose  I  have  known!" 

She  was  softened  for  the  moment  by  the  deep  sincerity  of  his  tone. 
"I  have  valued  you  as  a  friend  —  you  have  given  me  every  reason  to 
—  I  still  want  you  for  my  friend." 

"That  is  not  enough,"  he  said  with  a  gesture  of  bitter  disdain. 

"It  is  all  I  can  give  you." 

He  heard  Stephen  come  whistling  up  the  path  from  the  lane,  and 
shaken  by  his  emotion  threw  himself  down  in  his  chair. 

"I  will  attend  to  the  notes,"  he  said,  with  an  attempt  at  composure 
as  Stephen  entered  the  room. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-THREE 

AT  the  expiration  of  his  leave  Stephen  was  detailed  for  service 
at  the  recruiting  office  that  had  been  opened  at  Benson;  an 
appointment  he  received  with  a  very  bad  grace  indeed  since 
if  he  continued  in  the  post  it  put  a  most  effectual  stop  to  his  career 
of  glory.  Virginia,  however,  was  delighted,  and  even  Marian  was 
hardly  inclined  to  give  her  hero  the  sympathy  he  demanded  in  view 
of  what  he  conceived  to  be  the  extraordinary  hard  luck  that  had 
befallen  him. 

He  now  devoted  his  leisure  to  Marian,  and  urged  upon  her  the 
desirability  of  their  speedy  marriage.  He  found  an  unexpected  ally 
in  Mrs.  Benson,  who  like  many  mothers,  once  it  was  decided  her 
daughter  was  to  marry  appeared  only  anxious  to  have  it  over  with 
as  soon  as  possible. 

The  father  of  the  family,  wholly  occupied  by  his  invention  which 
he  was  seeking  to  have  adopted  by  the  government,  was  ready  to  agree 
to  anything  so  long  as  no  demands  were  made  upon  his  time  which 
was  absorbed  at  the  shops,  and  by  the  frequent  trips  he  was  making 
to  Washington  where  he  had  become  a  familiar  figure  among  the 
army  of  hungry  contractors,  jobbers,  and  inventors,  who  like  himself 
had  schemes  to  further  with  the  War  Department. 

"What  about  young  Landray  and  Marian?"  the  lawyer  asked 
him  one  day;  they  were  in  the  mechanic's  office  at  the  shops. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!"  said  Tom  Benson  irritably.  "Ask  her  mother 
—  I  got  nothing  to  do  with  it,  Jake." 

"I  have  asked  her;  it  seems  they  want  to  be  married  before  Stephen 
returns  to  the  front;  do  you  approve  ?  But  I  suppose  you  do." 

"Don't  lose  your  temper,  Jake,  it  can't  be  helped;  you're  a  good 
enough  lawyer,  but  you  know  damn  little  about  women  or  you'd 
understand  why  I  don't  meddle  with  their  plans!" 

"I  suppose  you  know  that  young  Landray  has  very  little  beside 
his  pay  ?"  said  Benson. 

278 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-THREE  279 

"Is  that  so  ?  Well,  I  can't  see  that  it  matters  much.  Marian's  to 
stay  with  us  anyhow;  and  she'd  turn  up  her  nose  at  a  man  that 
didn't  wear  a  uniform  —  and  young  Landray's  all  right;  he's  got 
quite  a  knack  for  machinery,  he's  a  good  deal  here,"  said  Tom 
Benson. 

"You  mean  you  can  do  something  for  him  when  the  war's  over  ?" 
inquired  the  lawyer,  who  seemed  interested  in  this  phase  of  the  case. 

"That's  about  what  I'm  figuring  on  doing.  I  guess  Marian's 
mother'd  look  to  me  to  see  that  the  young  folks  didn't  want  for  any- 
thing; and  she  might  do  lots  worse,  Jake.  I've  told  him  one  thing 
though,  I  want  him  to  get  a  couple  of  thousand  dollars  and  invest 
them  here  with  me,  for  him  and  Marian  —  in  the  gun,  I  mean  —  he 
says  he  can't  get  the  money  unless  his  aunt  will  borrow  it  for  him." 

"I  don't  like  that!"  said  Benson  quickly.  "I  wish  you'd  done 
nothing  of  the  kind;  the  demand  can  only  embarrass  her." 

"Oh,  it  ain't  that  I  want  the  money,  Jake.  I'll  give  Marian  what'll 
amount  to  a  good  deal  more.  I  want  to  do  my  share  at  starting  'em 
in  life,  and  this'll  be  a  nice  little  nest-egg  for  him  when  he  comes 
back;  and  ain't  he  entitled  to  something  from  the  estate  ?" 

"I  suppose  he  is,"  said  Benson  grudgingly. 

"Well,  then,  he'd  better  take  it  and  put  it  in  here  where  it'll 
amount  to  something;  he  ought  to  have  the  handling  of  his  own 
money." 

"The  sum's  small  enough  if  a  strict  accounting  was  made,"  said 
Benson  hastily. 

"Still  there's  something  coming  to  him,"  urged  the  mechanic. 

"Of  course,"  answered  Benson  reluctantly. 

"Well,  he'd  better  put  it  in  here  with  us,  Jake.  Look  here,  I  don't 
want  him  to  be  other  than  fair  to  his  aunt;  but  if  he's  going  to  marry 
my  girl  he's  got  to  think  of  himself." 

"Well,  there's  nothing  to  be  gained  from  talking  with  you,"  said 
Benson  frowning.  "They'll  marry,  and  that'll  be  the  end  of  it." 

"No,  no  use,"  admitted  Tom  Benson  absently.  "I've  got  my 
hands  full  without  trying  any  arguments  with  Mrs.  Benson;  your 
aunt  ain't  open  to  argument  —  or  rather  she  is;  but  conviction's  a 
long  ways  off.  Get  married  yourself  and  you'll  understand  why  I 
can  storm  around  down  here  at  the  shops,  and  why  I  go  home  as 
meek  as  a  wet  kitten." 

"Of  course,  I  don't  want  to  interfere,"  began  the  lawyer. 

"No,  you'd  better  not.  The  family's  on  pretty  good  terms  with 


28o  THE  LANDRAYS 

itself,  a  thing  it  never  was  in  your  father's  day;  and  all  because  he 
wanted  to  think  for  us  all.  That's  why  him  and  me  never  spoke  for 
the  last  ten  years  of  his  life.  No,  let  them  have  their  own  way,  it'll 
save  a  lot  of  trouble.  If  there's  a  wedding,  you  and  me'll  act  as  if  we 
enjoyed  weddings!"  He  fell  to  rubbing  his  unshaven  chin  with  the 
back  of  his  hand;  then  he  took  up  the  model  of  the  breach  and  stock 
of  his  rifle  which  he  had  been  considering  when  his  nephew  entered 
the  office.  "It's  a  great  gun,  Jake,"  he  said  with  fond  pride  in  his 
invention.  "I've  got  the  assurance  that  it  will  be  given  a  fair  trial; 
first  a  company,  and  if  that  works,  then  a  regiment.  What  do  you 
think  of  calling  it  the  'Peace-maker?'  That's  what  the  country's 
looking  for."  He  fixed  Benson  with  his  eye.  "What  do  you  say  to 
making  a  thousand  of  the  perfected  pattern,  against  the  demand 
there's  sure  to  be  ?" 

"But  you  have  been  making  them  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  mechanic  "we've  about  five  hundred  on  hand, 
but  of  a  former  pattern." 

"So  many  as  that!"  cried  the  lawyer.  "What  do  they  cost  apiece 
to  manufacture?" 

"About  ten  dollars,  but  the  cost  is  coming  down  all  the  time.  The 
first  hundred  stood  us  about  fifteen,  but  that  was  because  there 
was  too  much  hand  work  put  on  them.  I  made  the  second  hundred 
for  twelve  and  a  half;  and  the  last  hundred  for  a  shade  over  ten, 
but  I'll  peel  it  some  yet." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  all  that's  a  loss?"  demanded  Benson 
with  some  show  of  concern. 

"No,  of  course  not,  I'll  make  those  over,"  responded  the  me- 
chanic. 

"And  until  you  do,  about  seven  thousand  dollars  are  tied  up!" 

"Somewhere's  near  that,"  said  the  inventor  indifferently.  "But 
look  here!"  he  added  quickly.  "Just  think  of  the  men  the  govern- 
ment's got  enlisted;  and  once  our  rifle's  given  a  fair  trial  every 
mother's  son  of  them  will  be  lugging  a  'Peace-maker;'  I'm  looking 
for  big  returns.  We'll  be  thinking  in  thousands  where  we're  thinking 
in  hundreds  now  and  holding  our  breath.  Damn  the  small  things! 
Bently  kept  me  down  to  them  until  I  pretty  near  sickened  of  the 
business  here." 

"Well,  don't  ruin  me,"  said  Benson. 

"Ruin  you,  Jake!  I'll  make  you  ten  times  the  man  you  are!"  said 
the  mechanic. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-THREE  281 

''Dont  you  think  you'd  better  go  a  little  slow  until  you're  sure 
the  gun  will  be  accepted  ?"  said  the  lawyer. 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  enough  now;  but  I  been  pretty  near  badgered  to 
death  by  them  government  experts,  as  they  call  themselves;  pretty 
nigh  discouraged  —  but  we  are  to  have  a  fair  trial  now,  and  you'll 
find  you've  made  your  best  venture  with  me,  Jake." 

About  this  time  Stephen  was  informed  that  he  would  be  expected 
to  rejoin  his  command  within  six  weeks.  He  went  to  Virginia  and 
presented  the  matter  to  her;  he  wished  to  marry  Marian  before  he 
went  to  the  front,  would  she  be  willing  to  borrow  money  for  him3 
He  had  the  grace  to  be  shame-faced  and  embarrassed  when  he  made 
this  request,  for  he  was  more  than  remotely  conscious  of  its  selfish- 
ness. He  also  wanted  to  make  the  investment  Tom  Benson  advised;  in 
fact,  the  mechanic  was  rather  urging  it  upon  him.  He  believed  in  the 
rifle  himself,  and  if  the  mechanic's  eloquent  figures  told  the  truth,  it 
would  give  him  something  to  look  forward  to  when  the  war  ended. 
If  they  could  borrow  about  twenty-five  hundred  dollars  it  would  be 
ample.  He  only  wished  the  loan  to  run  a  year;  then  he  would  take  it 
up  out  of  his  profits;  or  if  they  failed  to  eventuate  by  that  time,  Tom 
Benson  had  assured  him  that  he  would  himself  let  him  have  what 
money  he  required. 

When  he  enlisted  Stephen  had  determined  that  he  would  never 
again  make  any  demands  on  Virginia  for  money;  he  had  even  gone 
through  the  mental  process  of  relinquishing  all  claim  on  the  estate; 
but  was  glad  now  that  he  had  not  told  her  of  this  benevolence  of 
his. 

It  annoyed  him  greatly  that  Jacob  Benson  would  have  to  know 
just  how  the  money  was  secured;  but  he  hoped  that  some  day  he 
could  remove  his  affairs  beyond  the  scope  of  the  lawyer's  know»edge 
It  was  deeply  humiliating  that  he  should  have  this  intimate  acquaint- 
ance with  them,  for  he  knew  that  Benson  would  have  his  own  opinion 
of  him,  and  he  knew  him  well  enough  to  be  aware  that  he  wou.d 
invest  the  transaction  with  none  of  the  large  charity  with  which  Vu- 
ginia  was  sure  to  regard  it.  Virginia  said  she  would  see  Benson, 
and  learn  just  what  they  could  do,  and  with  Benson's  help,  the 
money  was  raised;  and  Stephen  was  married  to  Marian  three  weeks 
later  on  the  eve  of  his  departure  for  the  front. 

Virginia  accepted  this  as  she  always  did  the  inevitable,  with 
much  composure  and  few  words.  It  was  useless  to  think  that  Marian 
could  ever  be  anything  to  her  —  perhaps  it  was  her  own  fault,  and 


282  THE  LANDRAYS 

she  was  ready  enough  to  admit  that  it  might  be;  but  there  was  no 
affection  between  them,  and  she  felt  that  none  was  possible;  and  she 
was  more  sorry  for  Stephen  than  she  had  ever  been  for  herself,  for 
she  knew  he  must  suffer  a  bitter  disappointment. 

Tom  Benson's  gun  had  its  trial,  and  he  came  home  from  Washing- 
ton where  he  had  received  the  report  of  the  experts  who  had  con- 
ducted the  tests,  one  cold  February  morning,  an  aged  and  broken 
man.  It  was  scarce  day  when  he  arrived  in  town,  but  instead  of  going 
home  he  went  straight  to  the  office,  where  he  let  himself  in  with  the 
key  he  always  carried;  and  when  Jim  Williams  the  bookkeeper,  pre- 
sented himself  there  shortly  after  seven  o'clock,  he  found  him  still 
with  his  hat  and  overcoat  on,  and  seated  before  his  desk  with  his 
hands  buried  deep  in  his  trousers'  pockets,  and  seemingly  quite  un- 
mindful of  the  bitter  cold  in  the  fireless  room.  He  had  been  there  for 
an  hour  or  more  but  had  hardly  moved;  first  in  absolute  darkness, 
then  the  thin  grey  light  had  stolen  in  through  the  frosted  windows, 
and  the  sun's  faint  rays  as  the  day  broke.  But  he  had  not  noticed  the 
change,  and  it  was  only  when  he  heard  Williams  fumbling  with  numb 
fingers  to  fit  his  key  to  the  lock  that  he  stirred,  gruffly  calling  to  him 
to  enter. 

"When  did  you  get  back  ?"  demanded  Jim  in  frank  surprise. 

"This  morning,"  said  Benson  shortly. 

"Train  must  have  been  late,"  ventured  Jim. 

"Four  hours." 

"Snow?" 

"Yes." 

He  had  removed  his  hat  and  outer  coat,  and  was  hanging  them  up 
on  their  peg  back  of  the  door  by  his  desk. 

"Stir  round,  will  you!"  said  Benson.  "And  see  if  you  can  get  a 
fire  started  —  it's  as  cold  as  hell  here!" 

He  had  never  been  an  especially  agreeable  man  in  his  relation 
with  his  subordinates;  and  the  bookkeeper  after  building  a  fire  in 
the  office  stove  went  back  into  the  shops,  and  informed  Shanley  the 
foreman  that  "The  old  man  was  hipped  over  something,  and  that  he 
was  a  mighty  good  proposition  to  let  alone." 

"Then  I'm  just  the  lad  to  leave  him  be,  if  that's  so,"  said  the 
foreman  jocosely. 

And  Shanley  profiting  by  the  hint  kept  out  of  the  office.  Jim's 
duties,  however,  did  not  admit  of  his  taking  a  similar  precaution; 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-THREE  283 

but  he  found  that  Tom  Benson  took  no  notice  of  him.  He  sat  idly 
before  his  desk  all  the  morning  and  if  he  noticed  anything  it  was  the 
skirmish  line  of  the  heat  on  the  frosted  window  panes  in  front  of 
him,  which  as  the  day  advanced,  retreated  from  the  centre  of  the 
panes  until  a  circle  had  been  cleared  in  each,  through  which  one 
might  look. 

He  was  still  seated  there  at  midday  when  the  foundry  bell  clanged 
clear  and  sharp  from  the  little  square  tower  on  the  roof  over  his  head. 
He  watched  the  hands  as  they  came  hurrying  out  of  the  big  gates,  he 
heard  the  crisp  sound  of  their  footfalls  as  they  disappeared  up  and 
down  the  street,  where  the  snow  lay  heavy  and  white;  and  a  smoth- 
ered curse  broke  from  his  twitching  lips. 

"Did  you  speak  ?"  asked  Jim,  who  was  putting  coal  in  the  stove 
preparatory  to  leaving,  too. 

"No,"  said  Benson  gruffly,  "I  didn't."  Then  as  the  bookkeeper 
was  slipping  into  his  coat,  "Stop  at  the  hotel,  will  you,  and  have 
them  put  me  up  a  snack  and  a  pot  of  coffee.  You  can  fetch  it  with 
you  when  you  come  back  after  dinner." 

But  when  Williams  brought  the  lunch,  he  hardly  tasted  it;  and 
the  coffee  was  cold  before  he  gulped  down  a  cupful  of  it.  This  was 
all  he  took. 

All  the  afternoon  the  shops  clanged  and  echoed  as  the  work  there 
went  on.  It  was  a  sound  he  had  loved  once,  but  now  it  only  brought 
to  him  the  sickening  consciousness  that  there  would  come  a  silence 
which  he  should  be  powerless  to  vivify  into  life  and  energy. 

At  last  he  took  up  a  pen  and  found  a  sheet  of  paper  and  began  to 
write,  or  rather  scrawl,  and  this  scrawl  took  the  form  of  a  letter 
which  he  afterward  put  in  an  envelope  he  had  already  addressed  to 
his  nephew.  This  was  what  he  had  written: 

"  I  am  just  back  from  Washington.  The  gun  is  a  failure.  It  has  been 
finally  rejected  by  the  experts,  which  does  not  so  much  matter,  for  it 
seems  that  my  patents  are  not  so  sound  as  I  supposed.  There  were  others 
ahead  of  me  with  the  same  idea,  and  they  got  the  best  of  it.  When  I  got  you 
to  join  me  in  this  venture  I  did  not  know  that  I  was  infringing  on  any  one  ; 
but  this  point  was  established  beyond  doubt  while  I  was  in  Washington, 
where  I  had  several  interviews  with  the  other  parties'  representatives.  I  am 
sorry  for  you  ;  but  you  will  remember  that  you  yourself  told  me  to  go  ahead 
and  that  you  would  stand  back  of  me.  I  did  so.  You  will  find  that  you  are 
much  more  deeply  involved  than  you  have  any  notion  of.  I  should  say  that 
your  individual  losses  will  easily  reach  fifteen  or  twenty  thousand  dollars. 


28'  THE  LANDRAYS 

My  own  -v  mucn  heavier,  so  heavy  that  I  can  never  meet  tnem.  Knowing 
this,  you  will  understand  why  I  take  the  course  I  do." 

The  afternoon  wore  on.  He  watched  the  tracery  of  the  frost  creep 
up  the  panes  again.  Lights  flared  in  the  long  rows  of  windows  in  the 
shops,  but  the  sounds  there  and  the  rumble  of  heavy  machinery  con- 
tinued until  it  was  quite  dark.  Then  all  this  ceased  with  a  sudden 
bang  and  jar;  and  again  overhead  the  big  bell  rang  out  clear  and 
sharp  in  the  cold  night  air. 

"It's  zero  weather,"  commented  Williams  getting  down  from  his 
stool,  but  his  employer  gave  no  heed  to  what  he  said,  and  he  busied 
himself  noisily  in  stamping  into  his  overshoes,  then  he  put  on  his 
hat  and  coat.  Benson  roused  himself. 

"Jim!  "he  said. 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  the  bookkeeper  briskly. 

"What  are  they  doing  inside  ?" 

"They  are  going  ahead  with  the  guns." 

"How  many  have  they  got  ?" 

"Something  over  fifteen  hundred." 

Benson  groaned  aloud.  It  was  worse  than  he  supposed.  He  said 
huskily: 

"You  can  stop  them  in  the  morning.  I  ain't  the  heart  to;  but  the 
government's  soured  on  the  whole  scheme.  It's  infernal  experts  say 
the  gun's  no  good!"  he  brought  down  his  fist  with  a  mighty  thud  on 
the  desk  before  him.  "And  its  damned  Patent  Office  has  allowed  me 
to  go  ahead  with  a  mechanism  that's  an  infringement  on  patents 
already  granted;  what  in  hell's  name  do  you  think  of  that!"  he  left 
his  chair  and  lurched  across  the  room  toward  Williams,  who  was 
open-mouthed  with  surprise  and  dismay.  "I've  had  to  spend  money 
like  water  to  find  this  out!  I  been  buying  meals  and  drinks  for  the 
small  fry  of  hungry,  thirsty  harpies,  and  taken  rebuffs  from  the  big 
ones  in  office;  me,  that  counted  myself  as  good  as  the  best!  I've  had 
smart  lawyers  who  told  me  to  go  ahead,  that  I  was  all  right,  that  my 
gun  didn't  conflict  with  no  patents  issued;  the  head  man  in  the 
Patent  Office  told  me  the  same,  but  day  before  yesterday  a  little 
twenty-dollar-a-week  clerk  showed  me  where  I  did  conflict;  and  it 
was  so  plain  that  anybody  but  a  government  bat  who  ain't  respon- 
sible to  any  one  on  God's  earth  for  his  mistakes,  would  have  seen  it 
with  half  an  eye!" 

"It's  too  bad!"  said  Williams,  at  a  loss  for  words. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-THREE  285 

"Yes,  it's  too  bad!"  echoed  Benson,  with  dull  inadequacy,  drop- 
ping back  into  his  chair. 

"Hadn't  you  better  go  home  ?"  ventured  Jim. 

"What  for  ?"  snarled  Benson,  relapsing  into  ill-nature,  and  regret- 
ting his  momentary  frankness. 

"Well,  you  can't  stay  here." 

"I  want  to  dip  into  the  books.  I  want  to  see  where  we  stand,  and 
figure  out  what  I've  dropped  on  this.  I'll  go  home  presently  —  and 
you  keep  your  mouth  shut  until  to-morrow." 

When  Jim  left  him,  he  opened  the  books  which  the  former  had 
placed  on  his  desk;  he  knew  before  he  opened  them  just  what  he  would 
find;  yet  he  had  a  vague  unreasoning  hope  that  their  figures  might 
tell  a  different  story.  For  half  an  hour  he  pored  over  them  and  then 
closed  them  with  a  bang. 

"I'm  a  ruined  man!"  he  muttered.  "And  Jake  ain't  much  better 

off." 

He  took  up  the  lamp  from  his  desk,  and  unfastening  the  door  that 
led  into  the  shops,  disappeared  among  the  machinery.  For  a  little 
time  his  lamp  moved  to  and  fro;  presently,  however,  it  became  sta- 
tionary, and  there  was  the  clanking  of  a  chain;  this  ceased,  and  he 
seemed  to  be  moving  some  heavy  object  across  the  floor,  dragging  it; 
then  suddenly  the  light  was  extinguished,  the  chain  clanked  again, 
violently  this  time  —  then  there  was  absolute  silence. 

Williams,  rather  troubled  by  the  news  that  Benson  had  imparted 
to  him,  had  gotten  no  further  than  the  square  when  he  met  Shanley 
the  foreman.  To  him  he  confided  all  that  their  employer  had  just 
told  him. 

"So  his  gun's  no  good!  I  bet  he  didn't  like  that;  he's  always  so 
blame  sure  of  himself;"  and  Shanley  did  not  attempt  to  disguise  a 
certain  lingering  satisfaction  that  at  last  Tom  Benson  had  encoun- 
tered failure. 

"It's  nothing  to  chuckle  over!"  said  the  bookkeeper  resentfully. 

"If  you'd  seen  him!" 

"Well,  of  course  he'd  take  it  hard;  he  takes  everything  hard,  even 
his  good  luck,  how'd  you  expect  him  to  take  this  ?"  demanded  the 
foreman. 

"If  his  gun's  no  good,  he's  been  losing  money  hand  over  hst. 
Look  here,"  said  Williams.  "I  want  you  to  go  back  with  me." 

"Back  with  you  where?"  asked  Shanley. 

"Why,  to  the  shops;  I  left  him  there." 


286  THE  LANDRAYS 

"You  left  him  there  ?"  cried  Shanley. 

"Yes,  worrying  over  the  books.  I  got  my  doubts  about  him." 

"Hold  on,  do  you  mean  you  think  —  " 

"I  don't  know  what  I  think;  but  we'd  better  go  back." 

"He'll  think  we're  spying  on  him,  and  I  don't  want  to  get  the 
rough  edge  of  his  tongue." 

"Neither  do  I,"  agreed  Williams.  "I'll  tell  you  what  we'd  better 
do  —  we'll  go  get  Jake  Benson,  and  have  him  go  back  with  us.  I 
tell  you  we'd  be  doing  all  wrong  to  leave  the  boss  alone  there.  I  don't 
feel  right  about  it." 

As  they  were  standing  on  the  corner  in  front  of  the  lawyer's  house, 
this  took  only  a  moment;  and  as  the  three  men  turned  back  toward 
the  shops,  Williams  briefly  explained  his  fears  to  Benson,  who  at 
each  word  quickened  his  pace;  they  arrived  at  the  office  panting  and 
out  of  breath,  but  there  was  no  light  there  now,  the  frosted  panes 
showed  white  and  clear. 

"He's  not  here  —  thank  the  Lord!"  said  Williams. 

"Gone  home,  I  guess,"  suggested  Shanley. 

"Have  you  your  key?"  asked  Benson  of  the  bookkeeper.  "If  you 
have  we'll  go  in  and  make  sure." 

Williams  unlocked  the  door  and  pushed  it  open;  then  he  struck  a 
match  and  rather  cautiously  entered  the  room.  The  others  followed 
him  close,  treading  softly. 

"No,  he's  gone  sure  enough,"  said  Williams,  giving  a  sigh  of  relief. 
"Probably  he's  home  by  this  time." 

"Of  course  he's  home  if  he  ain't  here!"  insisted  Shanley.  "Well, 
you've  given  us  a  pretty  scare!" 

"What  shall  we  do?"  asked  Williams  of  Benson,  as  he  dropped 
the  end  of  the  match  he  had  been  holding. 

"I  think  we'd  better  go  to  his  house  and  satisfy  ourselves  that  he's 
there,"  said  the  lawyer,  speaking  quietly  from  the  darkness  that 
enveloped  them. 

They  groped  their  way  out  into  the  night  again.  Williams  locked 
the  office  door,  and  then  turned  to  his  companions. 

"I  can  go  in  and  ask  if  he's  there;  and  if  he  ain't,  I  can  say  we 
were  expecting  him  back,  and  I  thought  he  might  have  got  in  on  the 
late  train;  we  don't  want  to  alarm  them,  you  know.  If  he's  there  I'll 
make  some  sort  of  an  excuse,  say  I  lost  my  key  in  the  snow  and 
came  to  get  his  so  I  can  open  the  office  in  the  morning  before  he  gets 
around." 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-THREE  287 

It  was  a  short  walk  to  Tom  Benson's;  and  the  lawyer,  and  Shanley, 
paused  in  the  street  opposite  the  house  while  Williams  crossed  and 
knocked  at  the  front  door.  It  was  opened  almost  immediately  and 
Williams  entered  the  house.  A  moment  later  the  door  opened  again, 
and  the  bookkeeper  rejoined  his  two  companions. 

"He  ain't  these,"  he  said.  "What  next?" 

"He  may  have  gone  up  street,"  suggested  Shanley. 

"I  think  we'd  better  go  back  to  the  office,"  said  Benson,  "and 
look  around  again;  perhaps  he's  inside  somewhere  —  possibly  in  the 
pattern-room." 

Arrived  at  the  office,  Williams  again  unlocked  the  door;  and  the 
two  men  followed  him  in  as  before,  treading  softly. 

"Find  a  lamp,"  said  Benson.  "I  want  to  make  certain  this  time 
whether  he's  here  or  not." 

A  lamp  was  found  and  lighted,  and  then  for  the  first  time  Williams 
noticed  that  the  door  leading  into  the  shops  was  standing  slightly 
ajar.  He  called  the  attention  of  the  others  to  this. 

"I  closed  and  fastened  it  when  I  left,"  he  said.  "I  always  do  before 

I  go  out." 

"He's  in  the  pattern-room  probably,"  said  Benson.     But  we  11  go 

back  and  make  sure." 

They  were  half-way  down  the  long  room  among  the  lathes  a 
shafting,  when  the  foreman  who  was  in  advance,  started  back  with 
a  cry  of  horror;  for  there  not  ten  feet  in  front  of  him  was  a  large 
dark  object  which  seemed  to  be  suspended  from  the  arm  of  a  heavy 
crane.  It  was  swinging  gently  to  and  fro.  Near  it  was  a  moulder  s 
case  set  on  edge.  Then  as  they  looked,  the  object  turned  slightly, 
and  the  light  of  their  lamp  shone  full  on  Tom  Benson's  rigid  face 
and  starting  eyes. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-FOUR 

BENSON  was  aghast  when  he  came  to  look  into  the  affairs  of 
the  shops.  The  condition  there  was  beyond  anything  he  had 
anticipated;  for  in  seeking  to  further  his  invention,  Tom  Ben- 
son had  completely  lost  his  head.  He  had  spent  money  lavishly;  the 
business  he  had  so  largely  extended  during  his  years  of  careful  man- 
agement had  been  neglected  until  nothing  remained.  But  at  last  the 
ruinous  record  was  complete;  by  the  middle  of  summer  the  last 
creditor  satisfied;  and  the  lawyer  was  able  to  coolly  consider  the  situ- 
ation. He  was  terribly  crippled  by  the  failure.  The  very  house  he 
lived  in  was  mortgaged,  and  he  applied  himself  to  his  profession  and 
his  client's  interests  with  an  assiduousness  he  had  never  before  mani- 
fested. 

He  was  just  beginning  to  breathe  freely  again  when  one  day 
he  received  one  of  Virginia's  rare  summons,  and  drove  to  the 
farm. 

"Mr.  Stark  was  here  yesterday,"  she  said,  when  she  greeted  him, 
with  an  attempt  at  composure  that  was  hardly  successful. 

"Mr.  Stark?"  he  repeated.  He  looked  blank. 

"Yes;  he  wants  his  money,  Mr.  Benson,"  she  said  unsteadily. 

"And  he  dared  to  come  here  to  you!"  burst  out  Benson  furiously. 
"He  promised  me  he'd  wait!" 

It  was  that  last  loan  made  at  the  time  of  Stephen's  marriage. 
While  he  had  supplied  the  money  himself,  Stark  had  acted  for  him; 
but  during  the  summer  he  had  been  forced  to  realize  on  the  paper, 
and  the  banker  had  accepted  it  as  security  for  one  of  the  several 
loans  he  had  made  to  him. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  troubled  you,  but  I  thought  you  might  be  able  to 
tell  me  if  there  was  anything  that  could  be  done." 

"I'll  see  him  at  once!"  said  Benson;  but  he  was  sick  at  heart 
with  what  she  had  told  him.  He  saw  that  his  misfortunes  were  ex- 
tending to  her. 

•M 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-FOUR  289 

He  hurried  back  to  the  town,  where  he  confronted  the  banker  in 
his  private  office  with  a  lowering  brow. 

"Ah,  Jacob,  take  a  chair,"  said  Mr.  Stark,  with  a  winning  smile. 

"See  here,"  said  Benson  abruptly,  "I  have  just  seen  Mrs.  Lan- 
i  " 

"Yes;  I  understand  you  go  there  quite  frequently,  Jacob,"  and 
the  old  man  laughed  slyly. 

Benson  glared  at  him,  speechless  and  white  with  rage. 

"I'm  here  on  business,  you'll  be  pleased  to  understand!"  he  said 

curtly. 

"Quite  as  you  prefer,  Jacob,"  and  the  banker  instantly  corrected 

his  levity  of  manner. 

"Do  you  recall  that  when  I  turned  back  that  mortgage  on  the 
Landray  farm,  you  agreed  that  it  was  to  stand  as  long  as  the  interest 

was  paid  ?" 

"I  think  you  are  mistaken,  Jacob,  the  loan  was  for  one  year,  if 

my  memory  serves  me." 

"That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it  — I  refer  to  our  conversation; 
and  my  understanding  was  that  you  would  not  press  the  payment  as 
long  as  the  interest  was  kept  up!"  n 

"I  really  don't  seem  able  to  recall  any  conversation  to  that  effect, 
said  the  banker  blandly. 

"You  don't?"  said  Benson  with  stern  repression. 

"No;  but  perhaps  you  made  a  memorandum  of  it." 

"I  didn't,  more's  the  pity,  and  get  your  signature  while  I  was 

about  it!"  , 

"It  was  a  pity,  Jacob.  At  my  age  —  eighty-one,  Jacob  —  a  mar 
memory  is  not  his  strong  point,  and  you  know  you  have  a  very  per- 
suasive manner  with  you.' 

"You  agreed  to  wait!" 

"I  can't  recall  it,  Jacob.  If  I  did  it's  quite  slipped  my  memory. 
Would  you  like  to  examine  the  mortgage  ?  I  have  it  by  me. 

"I  suppose  you  intend  to  buy  in  the  farm,"  said  Benson  scornfully. 

"Very  probably  I  shall  make  a  bid  on  it  — why  shouldn  t  1, 

"Mr.  Stark,  I  ask  it  as  a  personal  favour  that  you  abide  by  my 
recollection  of  our  conversation,"  said  Benson,  choking  down  his  rage. 

"No,  Jacob,  I  shall  have  to  act  according  to  my  own  memory  11 
the  matter.  This  terrible,  wicked  war  is  ruining  us  all,  and  the  c 
ing  of  the  shops  has  made  so  many  men  idle;  why,  they  have  I 


290  THE  LANDRAYS 

without  work  eight  months  now;  I  don't  know  what  our  merchants 
will  do;  it's  a  calamity  for  them.  And  Tom  Benson  was  always  such  a 
hard-headed  fellow,  a  really  excellent  man  of  business;  who  could 
have  foreseen  he  would  go  as  he  did!" 

"When  I  turned  over  that  mortgage —  "  began  Benson. 

"Why  speak  of  it  again,  Jacob  ?  Really  the  circumstance  should 
be  a  lesson  for  us  both." 

"I  want  to  know  what  I  am  to  expect  ?" 

"Haven't  I  made  that  clear,  Jacob?"  and  the  old  banker  looked 
at  Benson  over  the  tops  of  his  steel-bowed  spectacles,  while  a  dry 
smile  parted  his  lips. 

"  It  is  not  at  all  likely  that  Mrs.  Landray  can  raise  the  money  for 
you;  as  for  me  —  you  know  I  haven't  it!" 

"That's  unfortunate,"  said  Stark  in  the  gentlest  and  most  pitying 
of  tones.  "Very  unfortunate,  for  you  know  the  alternative." 

Benson  shrank  from  him  as  if  he  had  received  a  blow. 

"You  can't  do  that,  you  won't  —  "  he  cried. 

"I  will  have  to,  Jacob." 

Benson  sank  into  the  chair  at  the  corner  of  the  old  man's  desk. 

"You  must  let  me  satisfy  you,"  he  urged. 

"Have  you  the  money,  Jacob  ?"  asked  the  banker  sharply. 

"No;  you  know  that." 

"Can  you  get  it,  Jacob  ?" 

"Not  unless  I  get  it  from  you  —  not  unless  you'll  take  a  second 
mortgage  on  my  home." 

"I  am  sure  you  won't  mind  my  telling  you  so,  but  I  think  you 
are  carrying  about  all  the  loans  you  should;  you  will  pardon  me,  it 
is  merely  an  old  man's  interest  in  your  welfare."  He  became 
thoughtful,  and  for  a  moment  Benson  hoped  he  would  relent. 

"Mr.  Stark,  as  a  favour —  " 

"No,  Jacob,  that  must  all  come  out  of  hours;  here,  I  have  only 
one  rule  for  friends  and  strangers." 

Benson  without  a  word  more,  turned  away.  He  would  try  else- 
where; surely  he  had  friends  who  could  help  him.  It  was  only  at  the 
last  moment,  however,  that  he  was  willing  to  admit,  that  temporarily 
at  least,  his  resources  were  exhausted. 

Virginia  accepted  the  situation  with  surprising  fortitude;  she 
neither  complained  nor  repined,  but  arranged  to  leave  the  farm 
early  in  November,  and  put  the  cottage  on  the  small  place  north  of 
town  in  order.  She  expected,  and  in  this  she  was  not  disappointed, 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-FOUR  291 

that  the  farm  would  bring  much  more  than  enough  to  satisfy  Stark; 
yet  when  the  day  came  when  she  must  leave  it,  her  composure  almost 
failed  her.  She  wondered  how  she  could  find  the  courage  to  begin 
anew;  how  it  would  be  possible  to  go  forward  from  day  to  day  amid 
strange  surroundings  when  such  brief  happiness  as  she  had  known 
had  been  here! 

Jane  had  gone  to  the  cottage  early  in  the  day  taking  Harriett,  and 
Virginia  with  Sam  West  had  remained  to  see  that  the  house  was 
emptied.  After  this  was  done,  and  after  the  last  loaded  wagon  had 
driven  off,  she  turned  back  to  pass  swiftly  through  each  room.  It  was 
her  farewell. 

A  day  or  two  later  Benson  presented  himself  at  the  cottage;  he 
looked  worn  and  haggard. 

"You  see  we  shall  be  quite  comfortable,"  Virginia  said,  showing 
him  into  her  small,  low-ceilinged  parlour.  "Please  don't  take  it 
quite  so  hard!" 

"This  would  never  have  happened  if  I  hadn't  been  so  terribly 
involved;  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  have  been  unable  to  get 
money  when  I  needed  it!"  He  spoke  with  bitter  unavailing  regret. 

"Yes;  but  I  could  not  have  taken  your  money,"  she  said.  He 
smiled  slightly. 

"You  couldn't  have  helped  yourself!  I  should  have  had  my  deal- 
ings with  Stark!" 

She  looked  at  him  gratefully.  His  despondency,  which  he  did  not 
seek  to  hide  from  her,  moved  her  to  a  feeling  of  greater  sympathy 
than  she  had  ever  known  for  him. 

"I  am  quite  content  here  —  it  is  only  that  it  is  strange  now,  but 

that  will  wear  off." 

The  lawyer's  face  suddenly  lighted. 

"I  sha'n't  be  burdened  as  I  am  now,  long—      1  buy  the  tan 
back,  and  then  you  shall  return  to  it,  Virginia!"  he  said. 

"No,"  said  Virginia.  "I  shall  never  go  back  there. 

"But  why  not?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know.  But  I  knew  when  I  left,  that  I  should  never  go 
back.  I  sometimes  think  that  if  I  could,  I  would  leave  here. 

"Leave  here,  Virginia!" 

"Yes  there  are  nothing  but  memories  for  me,  and  memories  may 
not  always  be  pleasant  things  to  live  with.  I  don't  know,  but  perhaps 
I  should  go  East  —  I  only  know  that  I  should  not  stay  here! 

"Then    thank  God  you  cannot  go!"  he  said,  but  in  the  same 


292  THE  LANDRAYS 

breath  iv*  idded,  "I  don't  mean  that  —  you  know  I  don't,  Virginia!" 
He  looked  into  her  face  with  a  world  of  longing  in  his  glance.  "Vir- 
ginia, hew  'ong  is  this  to  continue  ?"  he  asked. 

She  did  not  answer  him. 

"You  don't  answer  me,"  he  urged. 

"I  have  not  changed;  I  never  shall,"  she  said. 

"If  I  could  convince  myself  of  that  I  would  be  silent  —  but  I  can't 
believe  it;  perhaps  because  I  dare  not!  Some  day  you  will  change 
toward  me.  When  I  first  saw  you  I  was  a  boy  of  twenty  or  so  —  it 
was  when  Stephen  brought  you  here;  that  was  seventeen  or  eighteen 
years  ago.  I  have  waited  all  that  time,  and  I  am  still  waiting,  and 
twenty  years  hence  —  only  you  must  change,  Virginia  —  I  shall  still 
be  waiting  for  you;  whether  you  value  my  love  or  not,  you  may  be 
sure  of  that.  You  have  always  held  me  here;  to  be  near  you,  that 
has  been  the  perilous  happiness  I  could  not  deny  myself.  I  should 
have  gone  to  California  but  for  you  —  you  kept  me  here,  though  you 
did  not  know  it.  I  should  have  gone  into  the  army  when  the  war 
broke  out,  but  I  felt  then,  as  I  still  feel,  that  it  was  my  place  to  watch 
over  you.  Virginia,  who  else  have  you!  Stephen  has  gone  out  of  your 
life;  you  do  not  like  Marian  and  you  never  will,  so  you  have  lost  him. 
Of  them  all  you  have  only  kept  me;  does  that  mean  nothing  to  you  ?" 
He  paused.  "I  suppose  you  will  come  to  hate  me  —  hate  me  or  love 
me  —  because  of  my  insistance.  But  I  feel  that  I  shall  go  on  dogging 
you,  persecuting  you  with  my  devotion,  until  I  force  you  to  change! 
Which  will  it  be,  Virginia  ?  It  can't  last  so  forever  —  which  will  it 
be  —  hate  or  love  ?" 

"I  have  forbidden  you  —  you  must  not  speak  of  this  to  me." 

"Yes,  you  have  forbidden  it,  but  somehow  I  don't  obey  your  com- 
mands any  more.  I  don't  even  fear  your  displeasure.  I  suppose  I  am 
really  beginning  to  persecute  you!  I  wonder  if  I  ever  shall  do  that, 
Virginia  —  and  I  wonder  why  I  shouldn't,  my  life  is  empty  of  the 
one  great  blessing  I  have  coveted,  as  empty  as  if  I  had  not  lived  at 
all!  Do  you  think  you  have  any  right  to  make  me  suffer  ?" 

"No  —  no,  it  is  not  I  who  make  you  suffer." 

"Yes,  it  is  you!  It  is  because  you  will  abide  by  an  ideal!" 

"It  is  not  an  ideal!"  she  cried  passionately.  "But  a  living  presence 
still —  always  a  living  presence,  as  it  was  when  he  left  me!" 

"Then  why  didn't  he  stay  ?  If  he  had,  we  would  both  have  been 
spared!" 

She  looked  at  him  resentfully. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-FOUR  293 

"You  have  no  right  to  speak  of  him!" 

"Yes,  I  have;  for  I  would  have  done  more  —  sacrificed  more  —  " 

"Be  silent!"  she  commanded,  and  he  saw  the  white  anger  in  her 
face;  he  rose  and  went  to  her  side. 

"Forgive  me,  Virginia  —  God  knows  how  I  love  you." 

"Do  you  think  I  shall  forgive  you  because  of  that!"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  perhaps  because  of  that!  Circumstances  have  kept  us  to- 
gether from  the  first;  they  are  still  keeping  us  together  —  it  will 
always  be  so." 

When  Benson  reached  home,  he  found  a  stranger  seated  in  his 
office,  who  rose  as  he  entered  the  room. 

"Is  this  Mr.  Benson  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  the  lawyer.  "What  can  I  do  for  you  ?" 

"My  name's  Southerland,"  said  the  stranger.  "Mr.  Benson,  I 
want  to  talk  to  you  about  a  tract  of  land  in  Belmont  County,  on 
which  you  have  been  paying  taxes,  though  I  understand  it  don't 
belong  to  you.  The  county  clerk  gave  me  your  name  —  told  me  where 
to  find  you  —  I'm  from  Wheeling,  West  Virginia,  myself." 

"The  property  belongs  to  a  client  of  mine  —  a  widow.  I  have  it  in 
charge,"  said  Benson  briefly. 

"Is  it  on  the  market?"  inquired  Southerland. 

"Yes;  my  client  will  sell  for  a  price,"  answered  Benson. 

"You  have  had  offers  then  ?"  suggested  Southerland,  with  a  tinge 
of  disappointment. 

"None  that  we  care  to  consider,"  replied  Benson. 

"There's  two  thousand  acres  more  or  less  ?" 

"About  that,"  agreed  Benson,  nodding  slightly. 

"What  do  you  hold  it  at  ?" 

Benson  surveyed  him  critically.  He  wondered  what  his  business 
was;  he  wondered  also  what  was  the  value  of  the  land  and  if  it  had 
not  a  special  value  to  Southerland  —  he  rather  thought  it  had. 

"I'll  tell  you,"  he  said  at  last.  "I'd  like  to  look  over  the  property 
myself  before  I  commit  my  client  in  any  way." 

"You  won't  see  much  but  scrub-timber  and  rocks,"  said  Souther- 
land. 

"And  minerals,"  suggested  Benson  at  a  hazard. 

"Coal,"  nodded  Southerland. 

Benapn  was  thoughtful. 

"Go  back  with  me,"  advised  Southerland.  "I'll  show  you  over  it. 
I  know  every  rod  of  it." 


294  THE  LANDRAYS 

"Do  you  ?"  said  Benson  drily.  "Well,  I'll  go  back  with  you." 

"When,  Mr.  Benson?" 

"At  once  —  to-morrow  if  you  like,"  answered  Benson. 

His  first  impulse  had  been  to  see  Virginia;  but  on  thinking  it  over, 
he  decided  not  to  arouse  her  hope  until  he  was  sure  something  would 
come  of  it. 

The  next  day  he  boarded  an  east-bound  train  in  company  with 
the  Wheeling  man.  It  was  an  ugly  region  into  which  he  was  intro- 
duced, defiled  by  soft-coal  smoke,  and  unpicturesque  with  tall  foun- 
dry chimneys;  a  region  of  pig-iron,  coke,  iron  rails,  and  mammoth 
castings.  He  found  that  Southerland  was  a  man  of  substance  and 
importance  here.  In  his  own  smoky  atmosphere  he  talked  in  a  large 
way,  and  with  an  enthusiasm  for  his  schemes  and  ventures  which  he 
could  not  altogether  repress.  He  was  up  to  the  neck  in  iron,  he  told 
Benson,  and  he  was  all  for  going  deeper. 

To  look  over  the  Landray  tract  involved  an  entire  day  in  a  buggy 
over  the  worst  of  roads;  and,  as  Southerland  had  said,  there  was  not 
much  to  see. 

"I'll  tell  you,  sir,"  said  he,  chewing  a  blade  of  grass  and  watching 
the  lawyer  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye.  "I'll  tell  you,  sir,  I  want  this 
land.  I'll  give  as  much  as  the  next  —  maybe  you'll  find  I'll  give  more. 
After  you  get  through  with  me  you're  perfectly  welcome  to  go  about 
and  learn  all  you  can.  I  don't  want  you  should  think  I'm  trying  to 
keep  anything  from  you.  I  want  this  piece  of  property.  I've  been  buy- 
ing coal;  I  want  to  stop  that  —  I  want  to  mine  it.  You'll  note  the 
property's  out  of  the  way  just  now,  that's  what's  kept  it  back;  but  if 
I  buy  it  I'll  have  a  railroad  over  here  inside  of  a  twelve  month." 

They  had  left  the  buggy,  and  were  seated  on  the  ground  with  a  flat 
rock  between  them  which  was  littered  with  the  remains  of  their 
lunch. 

"I'll  make  you  my  offer.  I'll  give  —  "  he  paused  for  a  brief  in- 
stant. "I'll  give  fifty  thousand  dollars  for  the  tract.  Now  if  you  can 
beat  them  figures,  you're  at  liberty  to!"  He  had  risen,  and  stood 
looking  down  on  the  lawyer.  Benson  did  not  speak,  he  did  not  look 
up,  for  he  did  not  want  Southerland  to  see  his  face.  Fifty  thousand 
dollars!  He  wondered  if  he  had  really  heard  aright.  Fifty  thousand 
dollars!  A  great  joy  engulfed  him,  he  could  only  think  of  what  this 
would  do  for  Virginia  —  the  relief,  the  ease  —  again  the  comfort  of 
ample  means.  Yet  when  he  spoke  his  habitual  caution  prompted  him 
to  ask  coldly: 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-FOUR  295 

"That  is  the  best  you  can  do  ?" 

"Yes.  Think  it  over,"  said  Southerland.  "I'll  get  up  the  horse," 
he  added,  and  strode  away. 

Benson  did  not  follow  him  at  once.  Fifty  thousand  dollars! 
This  was  rare  news  he  should  carry  home.  He  did  not  propose  to 
commit  himself  to  Southerland  then  and  there  however,  he  would 
karn  first,  if  he  could  not  do  better.  But  he  had  the  premonition 
that  he  would  accept  this  offer  in  the  end,  since  something  in  South- 
erland's  tone  convinced  him  that  he  was  offering  all  the  land  was 
worth. 

On  the  drive  back  to  town  they  seemed  by  mutual  consent  to 
avoid  any  reference  to  the  offer.  When  they  drew  up  at  the  curb 
before  Benson's  hotel,  Southerland  said: 

"I  suppose  you'll  want  to-morrow  to  look  about,  and  then^you'll 
have  to  consult  your  principal  before  we  can  settle  anything." 

"Yes,"  agreed  Benson.  "If  I  see  you  in  the  afternoon,  I  suppose 
you  will  be  ready  to  put  your  offer  in  shape  for  me  to  submit  ?  I 
expect  to  take  the  night  train  west.  If  your  offer  is  accepted,  I'll  be 
back  by  the  first  of  next  week  to  conclude  the  deal." 

Benson  took  a  train  west  the  next  evening.  He  carried  with  him 
Southerland's  offer,  which  he  had  satisfied  himself  Virginia  could  do 
no  better  than  accept.  . 

From  the  first  his  feeling  had  been  one  of  generous  enthusiasm. 
He  could  hardly  wait  to  see  Virginia.  The  speed  of  the  tram  that  was 
bearing  him  across  the  State  seemed  utterly  inadequate  to  the  great 
occasion.  She  would  be  a  rich  woman  again;  the  smile  faded  from 
his  lips.  The  thought  smote  him  like  a  sudden  blow. 

His  one  hold  upon  her  had  been  her  dependence;  and  what  com- 
fort he  had  been  able  to  cheat  himself  into  taking  was  all  based  on 
the  idea  that  as  Virginia's  fortunes  grew  desperate,  she  must  inev- 
itably turn  to  him.  Now  he  would  have  nothing  to  offer.  She  was  free 
to  leave  Benson  if  she  chose. 

It  was  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  he  descended  to  the  sta- 
tion platform  at  Benson.  He  slept  late  the  following  morning,  and 
after  he  had  breakfasted  went  into  his  office  to  look  over  his  letters. 
These  were  but  few.  He  soon  disposed  of  them,  and  he  was  at  liberty 
to  go  to  Virginia.  But  he  had  parted  with  the  desire.  His  first  generous 
enthusiasm  had  quite  left  him.  He  assured  himself  that  he  was  still 
unspeakably  glad  for  her  sake,  it  was  only  that  for  his  own 
sake  he  could  not  be  glad.  He  must  surrender  all  idea  of  her;  b 


296  THE  LANDRAYS 

was  folly  to  imagine  he  could  do  this  all  in  a  moment,  all  in  a  day. 
In  his  life,  where  each  sane  and  modest  desire  had  known  its  accom- 
paniment of  modest  achievement,  this  love  of  his  had  been  the 
supreme  thing;  great,  compelling,  uplifting,  unsatisfied. 

There  was  one  thing  he  could  do;  and  suddenly  he  found  himself 
thinking  it  out  step  by  step  until  the  smallest  detail  was  clear  in  his 
mind.  He  might  buy  the  land  of  her,  paying  her  as  he  now  could, 
some  small  sum  for  it  that  would  benefit  her,  and  yet  keep  her  near 
him,  and  still  dependent.  If  ^e  did  this,  of  course  he  could  not  accept 
Southerland's  offer.  He  would  hold  the  land  just  as  Virginia  had 
held  it,  deriving  no  benefit  from  it.  This  would  be  a  disgraceful  and 
a  cruel  thing  to  do,  but  it  could  be  done  —  that  is,  it  would  be  simple 
enough  to  do. 

It  provoked  a  dull  wonder  in  him  that  he  could  consider  so  base 
a  betrayal  of  her  trust  and  confidence,  but  the  details  of  this  miser- 
able scheme  kept  recurring  to  his  mind.  He  even  assured  himself 
that  it  was  no  longer  possible  to  be  honest  in  his  dealings  with  Vir- 
ginia; for  to  be  so,  was  to  forever  banish  the  slight  chance  of  future 
happiness  to  which  he  clung  with  a  determination  and  desperation 
that  had  become  a  part  of  his  very  love  for  her. 

He  lived  through  each  phase  of  the  supposititious  transaction,  but 
not  without  suffering  to  himself.  Then  he  dismissed  the  matter  from 
his  mind.  He  felt  as  one  does  who  has  awakened  from  a  bad  dream. 
To  wrong  her  was  impossible.  He  would  do  what  was  honest  be- 
cause it  was  honest,  and  because  the  habits  of  a  lifetime  would 
admit  of  nothing  else. 

But  why  had  he  played  with  a  possible  temptation,  why  had  he 
allowed  such  a  fancy  to  possess  him  ?  He  gave  way  to  fear  —  fear  of 
himself;  and  he  was  again  weighing  the  merits  of  his  case,  the 
justice  even;  and  he  knew  that  it  had  become  a  struggle,  a  struggle 
to  maintain  himself  against  the  willingness  to  do  her  wrong. 

Strangely  enough  he  seemed  to  be  able  to  watch  quite  imperson- 
ally the  struggle  that  was  going  on  in  his  own  soul.  He  wondered 
what  this  tempted  man  would  do,  who  in  a  single  day  had  fallen 
away  from  all  his  nice  ideals  of  honour! 

"I  have  found  a  buyer  for  your  wild  land  near  Wheeling,"  Benson 
told  Virginia  two  days  later.  He  stood  by  the  window  with  his  back 
to  the  light;  to  him  the  air  of  that  low-ceilinged  room  was  close  and 
stifling 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-FOUR  297 

"You  have  done  what,  Mr.  Benson?"  Virginia  asked,  turning 
quickly  toward  him. 

"I  have  found  a  buyer  for  your  land  near  Wheeling,"  he  repeated 
huskily. 

"But  should  I  sell?  Is  there  need  for  it  now?"  Virginia  asked 
doubtfully. 

"Why  continue  to  pay  taxes  on  the  land?"  but  Benson  did  not 
meet  her  glance.  If  his  life  had  depended  on  it,  he  could  not. 

"Stephen  always  thought  it  might  prove  valuable  some  day." 

"I  fear  that  day  is  a  long  way  off,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  and 
still  with  averted  eyes. 

"So,  then,  you  think  I  should  sell  the  land,  now  that  I  have  the 
opportunity?" 

He  was  silent  for  an  instant  and  then  asked,  "Would  you  —  would 
you  —  consider  five  thousand  dollars  for  the  land?"  The  words 
came  with  an  effort;  they  seemed  to  choke  him. 

"Do  you  think  that  is  enough,  Mr.  Benson  ?" 

"It  is  an  unimproved  property,  you  know." 

"But  even  that  would  be  almost  double  what  Stephen  and  his 
brother  paid  for  it." 

"How  do  you  mean,  Virginia?  They  took  it  in  trade  from  Levi 
Tucker." 

"Oh,  yes,  he  traded  it  for  the  distillery,  have  you  forgotten? 
The  distillery  was  valued  at  five  thousand  dollars,  and  the  land  at 
twenty-five  hundred." 

Benson  glanced  at  her  sharply. 

"Do  you  know  the  exact  acreage,  Virginia  ?"  he  asked. 

"There  are  a  thousand  acres;  at  least,  I  seem  to  remember  having 
heard  Stephen  say  it  was  a  thousand  acres." 

It  flashed  upon  him  that  she  had  known  nothing  of  that  second 
transfer  of  a  thousand  acres  that  the  old  tavernkeeper  had  made  to 
the  brothers.  Probably  she  thought  the  sale  of  the  distillery  had  been 
concluded  by  a  cash  payment,  and  that  the  money  had  been  taken 
West  for  investment. 

Benson  hesitated.  An  abyss  seemed  to  be  yawning  at  his  feet.  What 
evil  chance  was  it  that  had  left  her  so  illy-acquainted  with  her  own 
affairs  ?  In  all  the  business  he  had  transacted  for  her,  she  had  signed 
the  necessary  papers  without  even  looking  at  them.  If  she  sold  the 
wild  land,  the  acreage  cc-ld  be  managed. 

4  You  remember,  don't  you,  that  this  land  is  yours?  That  \vhtn 


298  THE  LANDRAYS 

Anna  married  it  was  agreed  that  you  were  to  take  over  this  property 
in  lieu  of  an  increased  equity  which  Stephen  was  to  have  in  the  mill 
and  farm  ?  I  simply  wish  to  recall  this  point  to  your  mind  so  that 
you  will  understand  why  this  is  a  transaction  that  does  not  involve 
Stephen  in  any  way." 

She  knew  what  was  in  his  mind,  and  said  reproachfully: 

"You  don't  like  Stephen." 

"No,  I  don't,"  he  answered  frankly.  His  tone  was  one  of  bitter 
hostility. 

"But  why?  You  always  seemed  to  like  him  up  to  the  time  he 
enlisted,"  said  Virginia. 

"Didn't  that  furnish  me  with  sufficient  excuse  to  change  in  my 
feelings  toward  him,  what  more  was  needed  ? "  demanded  Benson 
harshly.  He  should  have  remained  with  you,  Virginia,  he  had  no 
right  to  enlist;  that  he  did,  was  sheer  wrong-headedness.  We  quar- 
relled over  that;  at  least,  I  told  him  what  I  thought  of  his  conduct, 
and  I  suppose  he  was  offended  by  it." 

"But  he  was  carried  away  by  the  enthusiasm  of  those  times.  He 
was  only  a  boy  —  he  became  involved  before  he  knew  what  he  was 
doing,  and  then  it  was  too  late  to  draw  back.  Remember,  he  had  all 
a  boy's  foolish  pride,"  she  urged  gently. 

"I  offered  to  take  his  place  if  he  would  stay  here  with  you,"  said 
Benson  almost  roughly.  He  wanted  her  to  know  just  what  he  would 
have  done  for  her,  he  was  hungry  for  approval 

"You  offered  to  take  his  place?"  she  said  in  surprise;  yet  not 
quite  understanding  what  he  meant  by  this. 

"Yes,  I  was  willing  to  go  in  his  place.  Can't  you  guess  what 
prompted  me  to  make  the  offer  ?" 

They  were  silent  for  a  moment,  then  Virginia  raised  her  eyes  to 
his,  and  he  met  her  glance  with  a  look  of  dumb  appeal. 

"I  thank  you  as  much  for  what  you  have  sought  to  do  for  me,  as 
for  what  you  have  actually  done,  Mr.  Benson.  If  I  have  seemed 
ungrateful  —  " 

"If  you  would  let  me  —  "  he  burst  out.  "There  —  forgive  me, 
Virginia,  I  don't  want  to  offend  you.  What  were  we  saying  ?  Oh, 
Stephen  —  he  had  as  little  business  to  marry  as  he  had  to  enlist.  I'd 
have  prevented  that  if  I  could,  but  I  couldn't.  His  folly  was  all  of  a 
piece,  I  am  angry  whenever  I  think  of  it." 

"I  wonder  what  he  will  do  when  he  comes  back,"  said  Virginia. 

Benson  said  nothing  The  farm  would  not  have  been  lost  but  for 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-FOUR  299 

Stephen's  selfishness.  This,  had  there  been  any  other  lacking,  would 
have  given  him  an  excuse  to  hate  the  young  fellow,  and  he  was 
ready  now  to  hate  all  the  world. 

"It  is  not  too  late  for  him  to  take  up  the  study  of  the  law  again," 
suggested  Virginia. 

"Not  too  late  if  he  thinks  that  is  what  he  wants,"  said  Benson 
briefly.  He  went  on  in  a  gentler  tone,  "But  why  do  you  worry  about 
him,  Virginia,  what's  the  use  ?  He  will  have  his  own  plans,  and 
you  will  forgive  me,  he  will  prefer  them  to  any  plans  you  can  make 
for  him.  You  know  him  well  enough  to  know  that." 

"But  may  I  not  think  that  you  will  aid  him  where  you  can  ?  That 
you  will  interest  yourself  in  his  future?" 

The  lawyer  shrugged  his  shoulders  moodily  and  frowned. 

"I  told  you  I  have  not  forgiven  him  for  his  selfish  ingratitude  to 
you;  but,  well  —  I  shall  probably  end  by  doing  whatever  you  want 
me  to  do.  Perhaps  that  was  not  very  generously  said.  We  have  gotten 
away  from  the  land;  you  are  satisfied  with  the  offer,  you  think  you 
will  accept  it  ? " 

"You  advise  me  to;  do  you  not  ?" 

He  did  not  answer  her  directly,  but  took  up  his  hat  from  the  chair 
where  he  had  placed  it  when  he  entered  the  room. 

"To-morrow,  perhaps,  I  shall  bring  the  deed  for  you  to  look  over 
and  sign,"  he  said,  as  he  made  ready  to  take  his  leave  of  her. 

"But  who  wishes  to  buy  the  land  ?"  asked  Virginia. 

"Page  Stark,"  said  Benson,  turning  back  into  the  room.  "You 
probably  know  that  he  has  always  dabbled  in  cheap  lands." 

Page  Stark  was  the  old  banker's  son,  a  reserved  and  silent  fellow; 
and  Benson  had  arranged  with  him  to  act  for  him  in  the  purchase 
of  the  land.  There  was  no  one  else  whom  he  could  so  fully  trust  to 
hold  his  tongue. 

"I  can't  go  on  with  this,"  he  told  himself  as  he  quitted  the  house, 
and  for  the  moment  he  felt  that  he  must  abandon  the  whole  project. 
But  when  he  reached  his  office  he  found  a  telegram  on  his  desk.  It 
was  from  Southerland,  reminding  him  of  the  promise  he  had  made 
that  he  would  be  back  in  Wheeling  by  the  first  of  the  week.  It  was 
now  Saturday.  This  moved  Benson  to  a  furious  anger;  he  tore  up  the 
telegram  with  swift  nervous  jerks,  and  tossed  the  scraps  into  his  waste- 
paper  basket.  "Damn  the  fool,  why  does  he  bother  me!"  he  cried. 
"Does  he  suppose  I  have  nothing  else  to  think  of!  He'll  be  surprised 
when  I  write  him  that  the  deal's  off." 


300  THE  LANDRAYS 

But  did  he  dare  write  Southerland  this  ? 

On  Monday  came  another  telegram;  the  Wheeling  man  was  evi- 
dently growing  restive  under  the  delay.  This  second  telegram  threw 
Benson  into  something  of  a  panic.  Suppose  Southerland  should 
come  to  see  Virginia!  He  had  not  thought  of  the  possibility  of  this 
before,  and  he  realized  in  spite  of  the  spacious  promises  he  had  made 
himself,  that  the  transaction  would  have  to  be  brought  to  a  conclu- 
sion of  some  sort;  for  clearly  Southerland  was  not  a  man  whom 
it  would  be  safe  to  ignore. 

Benson  did  the  only  thing  he  could  think  of  under  the  circum- 
stances. He  wired,  putting  him  off  until  the  end  of  the  week;  which 
brought  an  immediate  reply.  Southerland  now  wished  to  know  if  his 
offer  was  accepted;  and  to  this,  Benson  could  only  answer  in  the 
affirmative. 

But  even  after  the  deed  was  drawn  up,  it  lay  on  his  desk  for  two 
days;  and  then  it  was  only  the  apprehension  that  Southerland  might 
present  himself  to  Virginia,  that  induced  the  lawyer  to  conclude  the 
purchase. 

When  he  reached  Wheeling,  and  Southerland  saw  the  deed,  he 
was  not  a  little  surprised.  But  he  was  an  excellent  man  of  business 
himself,  in  all  that  the  term  could  imply  by  the  most  liberal  construc- 
tion that  could  be  put  upon  it;  and  he  decided  that  the  smooth-faced 
lawyer  was  a  sharp  hand  himself;  and  made  no  comment. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-FIVE 

IT  was  an  April  morning,  mild  and  warm,  in  the  rutted  roads, 
in  the  pillaged,  trampled  fields  the  sassafras  and  honey-locust 
had  claimed  for  their  abiding  place,  two  armies  were  drawn  up. 
Between  them,  skirmishers  moved  with  the  brisk  rattle  of  musketry; 
while  at  intervals  dull  echoes  woke  to  flow  reverberatingly  across  the 
wasted  land. 

Suddenly  the  firing  ceased.  The  long  line  of  advancing  men  in  blue 
halted.  The  enemy  was  withdrawing  and  was  rapidly  disappearing 
from  view  in  the  direction  of  Appomattox  Court  House. 

In  front  of  many  of  the  regiments  the  officers  had  formed  in  groups, 
and  from  group  to  group  spread  the  news  that  the  expected  battle 
was  not  to  be  fought. 

"  A  white  flag,"  one  would  say,  and  then  they  would  fall  to  shaking 
hands,  silently,  ceremoniously.  If  there  was  any  doubt  expressed, 
there  was  the  answer  ready:  "It's  so  —  I  tell  you  it's  so!  They  got  it 
from  a  staff-officer  who  said  it  was  so!" 

Further  afield  small  parties  of  men,  medical  attendants,  and 
stretcher-bearers,  were  moving  to  and  fro,  gathering  in  the  wounded 
who  had  fallen  on  the  skirmish  line. 

At  one  point,  on  the  edge  of  a  strip  of  woodland,  lounged  the  mem- 
bers of  a  company  that  had  been  recalled  from  the  front.  Their  cap- 
tain had  gone  down  into  the  woods,  fifty  yards  distant  perhaps, 
to  a  spring  that  gushed  out  of  a  bank  at  the  foot  cf  an  old  oak.  This 
captain  was  Stephen  Landray.  Having  satisfied  his  thirst  he  now  sat 
on  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree  with  a  battered  tin-cup  held  idly  in  his 
hand.  There  was  nothing  of  the  boy  left;  and  in  other  ways  as  well, 
the  physical  strain,  the  hardship,  and  the  suffering  he  had  endured 
had  told  on  him.  His  skin  was  dry  and  sallow  and  his  worn  uniform 
hung  loosely  to  his  erect,  nervous  figure.  Now  and  again  his  glance 
sought  the  men  on  the  edge  of  the  wood.  He  had  seen  soldiers  resting 
before  in  their  intervals  of  inaction,  but  he  realized  that  there  was  a 

30: 


302  THE  LANDRAYS 

difference  now;  some  subtle  change  had  taken  place  in  their  mental 
relation  to  their  surroundings  that  said  as  plainly  as  words  —  it  is 
over.  Yet  curiously  enough  the  realization  of  this  seemed  not  entirely 
satisfactory.  With  it  had  come  a  sense  of  loss  at  the  sudden  with- 
drawal of  a  purpose,  that  had  been  all  absorbing  and  to  which  they 
had  clung  tenaciously;  but  now  that  the  accomplishment  of  this  pur- 
pose was  immanent  they  seemed  to  feel  only  the  loss  of  what  for  four 
years  had  been  the  main  motive  in  their  lives. 

Landray  had  gone  through  that  very  process  himself,  only  he  had 
carried  his  speculations  beyond  the  immediate  present,  and  into  the 
future.  He  would  go  back  to  Benson  to  his  wife,  and  to  the  old  ties; 
and  then  what  ?  He  had  said  many  times  that  he  would  be  glad 
enough  when  the  war  was  over;  and  yet  now  that  it  seemed  the  gen- 
eral conviction  that  it  was  over,  he  was  conscious  of  no  special  satis- 
faction, and  he  felt  neither  enthusiasm  nor  elation;  on  the  contrary 
he  was  strangely  quiet,  strangely  repressed.  He  wondered  what  he 
would  take  with  him  from  his  four  years  of  soldiering  that  would  be 
useful  in  the  struggle  he  saw  before  him;  he  wondered  how  these 
thousands  of  men  would  be  absorbed  in  the  ordinary  channels  of 
life.  There  was  a  movement  among  his  men,  and  he  glanced  again  in 
their  direction,  and  saw  that  an  officer  followed  by  an  orderly,  had 
ridden  up  and  was -speaking  to  one  of  the  loungers.  The  distance  was 
too  great  for  Stephen  to  hear  what  was  said;  suddenly,  however,  the 
new-comer  swung  himself  from  his  saddle,  and  leaving  his  horse  in 
charge  of  his  orderly,  came  striding  across  the  open  woodland  toward 
him.  He  was  a  pompous  red-faced  man,  middle-aged,  but  vigorous 
and  sturdy,  and  dressed  in  a  handsome  well-fitting  uniform.  Landray 
scrambled  to  his  feet  and  saluted.  His  salute  was  graciously  returned 
by  the  stranger,  who  said: 

"I  see  you  have  a  tin-cup,  captain  —  "  pausing,  and  bestowing  an 
instant's  scrutiny  on  the  young  man.  "Would  you  mind  letting  me 
get  a  drink  with  it?" 

For  answer,  Stephen  stooped  and  filled  his  cup  and  handed  it  to 
him. 

"Rather  warm  for  so  early  in  the  spring,  general,"  he  said. 

"Thanks  —  eh  ?  Oh,  yes,  very  warm  indeed.  The  season's  unusu- 
ally well  advanced."  He  sat  down  on  one  of  the  exposed  roots  of  the 
oak,  and  removing  his  hat  carefully,  polished  his  bald  head  with  his 
handkerchief. 

Stephen  had  seated  himself  on  the  fallen  tree  again.  The  stranger 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-FIVE  3°3 

tossed  his  handkerchief  into  the  crown  of  his  hat,  and  fixed  the  latter 
on  his  head  with  a  deci  led  rake  over  one  eye;  then  he  looked  across 
at  Stephen  and  smiled,  showing  a  row  of  white  even  teeth. 

"Well,  young  man,"  he  observed  briskly,  and  with  an  air  of  plea- 
sant patronage,  "I  reckon  you're  beginning  to  think  of  the  home 
folks,  and  I  reckon  the  home  folks  are  beginning  to  think  of  you; 
but  maybe  there's  some  one  else  you're  thinking  of  hardest  of  all!  I 
guess  she'll  be  glad  enough  to  see  you  back,  eh  ?' 
5  "That  was  all  settled  when  I  got  my  first  furlough,"  said  Stephen 
laughing,  "and  that  was  over  three  years  ago." 

"Was  it  though!  Well,  I  guess  we  can  consider  this  rumpus  at  an 
end;  I  understand  General  Grant  and  General  Lee  are  going  to  get 
together  and  see  what  can  be  done  to  stop  the  effusion  of  blood.  I 
hope  Grant  will  be  in  a  complaisant  mood,  there's  never  any  harm 
in  making  it  easy  for  the  other  fellow  to  quit."  He  paused,  and 
looked  the  young  man  over  attentively.  "Ah  —  Ohio  regiment!  An 
Ohio  man  yourself,  captain?"  interrogated  the  general  beaming 
blandly  upon  him. 

"Yes,  born    there,  and    lived   there   until  I  enlisted,     answere 

Stephen. 

"What  part  of  the  state  do  you  come  from  ?     inquired  the  general 

after  another  brief  pause.  „ 

"The  central  part  of  the  state,  a  little  place  called  Benson. 

"Benson  —  the  devil!"  cried  his  questioner,  starting. 
there  myself  once  —  owned  a  paper  there,  in  fact." 

"Did  you  indeed  ?"  said  Stephen. 

"Yes   sir,  I  did,  and  I  had  a  pretty  wide  acquaintance.  Dabbl 
a  bit  in'  politics,  too,  and  knew  everybody  in  the  town^and  pretty 
near  everybody  in  the  county  —  what's  your  name,  sir  ? 

"Landray,  Stephen  Landray." 

"Landray?"  cried  the  other.  "Why,  God  bless  my  soul,  young 
man,  I  knew  your  father  well  —  we  were  the  same  as  brothers  tor 
take  it  you're  Bushrod  Landray's  son  —  yes,  of  course  you  re  Bush 
rod  Landray's  son,  for  Stephen  had  no  children. 

"Yes,  my  father  was  Bushrod  Landray,"  said  Stephen;  he  wor 


dered  who  the  stranger  might  be. 

"He  was  one  of  my  most  intimate   friends,  a  man  1 
immensely.  I'm  pleased  to  know  you;"  and  he  held  out  his  hand.  Hi 
delight  seemed  unbounded,  for  he  wrung  Stephen  s  hand  wit 
hearty  good-will.  "Well,  it  is  a  small  world,  ain't  it  ?  And  to  think  1 


304  THE  LANDRAYS 

should  meet  you  here  after  all  these  years!  Eh,  you  want  to  know 
who  I  am  ?  Gibbs  is  my  name  —  General  Gibbs  of  Missouri,  for- 
merly of  Lyon's  staff."  It  rolled  sonorously  from  his  lips. 

"I  have  heard  of  you,  General  Gibbs,"  said  Stephen. 

"I  bet  you  have!"  said  the  general  chuckling. 

"I  mean  they  have  not  forgotten  you  at  Benson,"  Stephen  made 
haste  to  say.  He  was  rather  embarrassed,  however,  for  he  was  aware 
that  he  had  never  heard  anything  of  this  old  friend  of  his  father's 
that  was  in  any  sense  creditable;  indeed  he  had  not  known  until 
that  moment  that  he  had  been  a  friend  of  his  father's  —  but 
Gibbs  himself  seemed  very  sure  of  that  point. 

"Of  course  they  ain't!"  still  chuckling  and  unabashed.  "I  usually 
manage  to  make  myself  felt  in  one  way  or  another  —  ain't  always 
the  best  way  perhaps,  but  it's  usually  warranted  to  last.  Tell  me  about 
everybody  —  your  own  folks  —  I  love  any  man  by  the  name  of 
Landray!" 

"I've  not  been  home  in  two  years,"  said  Stephen. 

"How's  your  mother  ?" 

"Didn't  you  know  —  but  of  course  you  couldn't,  she  is 
dead." 

"God  bless  my  soul,  you  don't  tell  me!  I'm  shocked  to  hear  it," 
cried  Gibbs.  "Inexpressibly  shocked  to  hear  it,  when  did  it  hap- 
pen?' 

"Years  ago,  she  died  out  in  India.  She  had  married  again,  and 
had  gone  there  with  her  husband  who  was  a  missionary." 

"You  don't  tell  me!"  repeated  Gibbs.  "And  your  aunt,  Ste- 
phen's widow  ? " 

"She  is  well;  or  was  when  1  heard  from  her  last." 

"Never  married  again,  eh  ?"  said  Gibbs. 

"No." 

"Remarkable!  but  I  reckon  it  wa'n't  for  any  lack  of  opportunity, 
she  was  a  most  beautiful  woman  as  I  recall  her." 

"She  is  still  a  very  beautiful  woman,"  said  Stephen,  but  for  some 
reason  he  did  not  care  to  discuss  Virginia  with  Gibbs.  He  had  felt  no 
such  reluctance  where  his  own  mother  was  concerned. 

"What  about  Jake  Benson  ?  I've  sort  of  lost  track  of  him,  we  used 
to  exchange  occasional  letters,  but  I  drifted  about  a  good  deal.  I  was 
living  in  Alabama  when  the  war  broke  out,  but  I  got  back  to  St. 
Louis  in  a  hurry  then,  my  politics  were  of  the  wrong  complexion  for 
down  South.  But  what  about  Jake  Benson  ?  I  reckon  he's  gone  on 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-FIVE  305 

piling  up  the  dollars;  give  him  a  start  and  you'll  never  stop  a  Yankee 
doing  that." 

"Of  course  you  are  not  aware  that  I  married  his  cousin." 

"  Didn't  know  he  had  any  cousin  left  when  I  took  my  wife,"  said 
the  general. 

"His  uncle's  daughter,  you  know,"  explained  Stephen. 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course  —  Tom  Benson's  daughter — I  recollect  he 
had  a  daughter.  I  declare  that  sort  of  makes  a  tie,  don't  it  ?  But  how 
is  Jake  ?  He  wa'n't  such  a  bad  fellow  as  I  knew  him;  he  had  his 
notions,  that  was  the  worst  I  ever  had  to  say  of  him.  I  used  to  tell  him 
that  all  he  needed  to  make  a  right  decent  fellow  was  to  limber  up 
some.  Well,  you  must  look  me  up  at  headquarters,  I'd  like  to  show 
them  there  the  sort  of  a  chap  I  used  to  carry  around  in  my  arms 
when  he  wa'n't  no  higher  than  a  walking-stick." 

"If  you  all  ain't  using  that  tin-cup,"  said  a  gentle  voice,  "will  you 
kindly  give  it  here  a  minute?"  The  speaker  who  had  approached 
unnoticed  and  now  stood  at  Stephen's  elbow,  was  a  lank  loose- 
jointed  young  man  of  about  Stephen's  own  age.  A  sandy  stubble 
that  had  not  known  a  razor  in  many  days  covered  his  chin  and  lips, 
his  hair  was  long  and  almost  swept  his  shoulders,  but  his  eyes  were 
mild,  and  in  the  corners  of  them  lurked  a  humorous  twinkle  which 
softened  his  savage  unkempt  appearance,  giving  him  an  air  of  genial 
burlesque.  He  was  clothed  in  tattered  grey  homespun,  and  halted  on 
one  foot  as  a  man  will  who  is  footsore.  On  the  damaged  member  he 
wore  a  list  slipper,  the  other  foot  was  encased  in  a  soldier's  rough 
brogan.  "I've  just  been  gathered  in,"  he  said,  with  a  slight  depreca- 
tory gesture  and  a  pleasant  twinkle.  "They  picked  me  up  along  with 
my  whole  company.  We  didn't  know  anything  about  the  white  flag 
until  it  was  too  late.  Gentlemen,  do  you  think  it's  over  ? " 

"Yes,"  said  Gibbs  promptly.  "I  think  it  is,  the  backbone's 
broken." 

"Well,  the  stomach's  been  empty  for  some  time,"  murmured  the 
stranger  with  gentle  melancholy.  "And  it  got  to  us  —  yes,  it  certainly 
got  to  us  bad!"  He  took  the  tin-cup  Stephen  had  filled  and  now  ex- 
tended to  him,  and  gulped  down  thirsty  swallows  of  water.  "Well, 
I'm  glad  it's  over  with,  if  it  is  over  with,"  he  said,  returning  the  cup 
to  Stephen.  "I  done  my  share  of  fighting.  I've  run  from  you  all;  and 
I've  run  after  you  all  when  you  were  going  in  that  direction." 

"Which  happened  now  and  then,"  said  Gibbs  laughing  good- 
naturedly. 


306  THE  LANDRAYS 

"Oh  some;  but  I  don't  wish  to  disparage  what  you've  accom- 
plished," said  the  stranger,  laughing  too.  "Taking  it  altogether,  I'm 
satisfied.  I  don't  care  if  I  never  see  another  war." 

Gibbs  approved  of  his  attitude,  for  he  commended  it  highly. 

"That's  the  proper  spirit!  You  stood  out  for  your  convictions, 
as  long  as  you  could;  for  it's  safe  to  assume  that  General  Lee  is  fully 
convinced  of  the  futility  of  further  resistance." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  as  I  had  any  convictions  ;  I'm  a  Utah  man 
myself;  and  it  was  just  my  contrary  luck  that  I  happened  to  be  in 
Texas  buying  cattle  when  Mr.  Davis  and  the  rest  was  for  going  out, 
and  I  was  asked  by  an  intimate  friend  which  I  preferred  —  being 
hung  or  joining  the  army  —  he  got  my  answer  right  off,  and  I  joined." 
He  meditated  for  an  instant  in  silence.  "I  reckon  I  must  have  thought 
they  needed  just  such  a  soldier  as  I  knew  I'd  make.  But  the  war's 
been  fought  to  a  finish  without  any  one  higher  than  a  corporal  ever 
asking  my  opinion.  Well,  I'm  glad  to  get  acquainted  with  you, 
gentlemen;  I  been  living  on  what  I  could  just  naturally  pick  up  for 
the  past  week,  and  there  was  mighty  little  to  pick  up;  but  I  hear  you 
all  have  got  grub,  so  I  reckon  it's  a  heap  worse  not  to  get  captured 
than  it  is  to  get  captured.  I  want  somebody  to  set  me  down  with  a 
skillet  and  a  coffee-pot,  and  leave  me  alone  for  a  spell  with  plenty 
of  Yankee  groceries  to  my  hand ! " 

Gibbs  and  Landray  had  risen  to  their  feet  while  he  was  speaking, 
and  now  the  three  turned  back  out  of  the  wood. 

In  the  open  fields,  the  long  line  of  halted  men  were  already  in 
motion.  They  were  being  withdrawn  from  the  front  of  what  was  to 
have  been  the  Union  position.  Where  they  emerged  there  was  con- 
siderable confusion.  A  battery  had  just  come  up  from  the  rear,  while 
a  regiment  recently  arrived  from  the  skirmish  line  had  broken  ranks 
and  its  thirsty  members  were  hurrying  down  to  the  spring  to  fill  their 
canteens.  They  left  the  Confederate  captain  with  his  men,  a  sparse 
handful  as  wildly  tattered  and  unkempt  as  himself,  with  whom  the 
blue-clad  soldiers  were  already  sharing  the  contents  of  their  haver- 
sacks. Stephen  extricated  his  company  and  prepared  to  march  back 
to  the  camp  he  had  quitted  at  four  o'clock  that  morning.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  and  Gibbs  lingered  to  speak  with  the  stranger;  to  commend 
him  to  his  captors  and  to  wish  him  well;  and  then  Gibbs  turned  to 
Stephen. 

"Well,  good-bye,  Landray,"  he  said,  as  he  swung  himself  into  his 
saddle;  then  he  leaned  forward  in  the  direction  of  the  young  man. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-FIVE  307 

"Now,  don't  forget  —  be  sure  and  look  me  up  if  you  get  the  chance; 
I  want  to  see  more  of  you!" 

"I  will,  with  pleasure,"  answered  Stephen  heartily,  for  he  meant 
to  see  Gibbs  again.  The  latter  galloped  away  with  his  orderly  at  his 
heels. 

"Landray!"  muttered  the  Confederate,  staring  hard  at  Stephen. 
The  name  was  strangely  familiar  —  he  had  known  some  one  once  — 

"Landray!"  he  repeated,  still  under  his  breath,  and  watched  Ste- 
phen and  his  men  move  briskly  off  across  the  field.  They  were  about 
to  disappear  from  sight  behind  a  clump  of  trees,  when  he  turned 
suddenly  to  one  of  his  guards. 

"Call  him  back!"  he  cried  excitedly.  "Tell  him  a  man  by  the  name 
of  Rogers  wants  a  word  with  him!  You  won't  ?  Well,  maybe  it  wa'n't 
him." 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-SIX 

STEPHEN  was  mustered  out,  and  returned  to  Benson,  where 
having  nothing  better  in  prospect  he  opened  a  real  estate  office; 
but  from  the  very  first  this  feeble  enterprise  was  doomed  to 
failure;  and  in  disgust,  at  the  end  of  a  few  weeks,  he  disposed  of  the 
business  for  a  trifling  sum  to  an  aimless  appearing  stranger,  who 
endured  for  perhaps  a  month  in  a  small  and  dirty  room  at  the  back 
of  a  large  gilt  sign  which  read  "Thomas  Carrington,  Successor  to 
Stephen  Landray,  Real  Estate  and  Insurance.  Money  to  Loan." 
The  last  being  the  merest  fiction,  and  meant  to  meet  a  future  contin- 
gency; and  then  Mr.  Carrington,  no  more  fortunate  than  Stephen 
had  been,  retired  precipitously  from  business,  and  was  successorless. 

It  was  shortly  after  his  retirement  that  he  chanced  to  meet  Stephen 
on  the  street. 

"Anything  doing,  captain?"  he  asked  casually,  and  with  the 
happy  unconcern  of  a  gentleman  the  stress  of  whose  condition  was 
relieved  by  a  temperament  that  rendered  even  failure  endurable. 

"No,"  said  Stephen;  he  was  slightly  embarrassed,  he  recalled  the 
trifling  sum  he  had  taken  in  exchange  for  the  fiction  of  good-will. 
Glancing  furtively  at  his  questioner,  he  was  impressed  by  the  fact 
that  Mr.  Carrington  was  looking  the  reverse  of  prosperous,  his  coat 
was  shiny  and  the  seams  showed  white  in  spite  of  the  liberal  inking 
he  had  given  them  with  the  last  ink  in  the  office  ink-well. 

"I  didn't  know  but  you  might  have  hit  on  something.  You  got  out 
easy,  yet  not  so  easy  as  I  did;  I  was  kicked  out.  Couldn't  pay  my  rent. 
But  I  figure  I'm  saving  ten  a  month;  that's  better  than  nothing." 
Carrington  said  with  a  cheerful  twinkle. 

"Yes,"  agreed  Stephen,  "that's  better  than  nothing." 

"It  only  shows  up  on  paper  though,"  said  Carrington.  "Now  if  I 
coula  live  on  paper  —  " 

"Some  )(  my  friends  are  urging  me  to  go  into  politics,"  said  Ste- 
phen. "They  want  me  to  run  for  county  clerk." 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-SIX  309 

Carrington  nodded;  he  had  heard  this  it  seemed. 

"If  I  secure  the  nomination,  I  am  certain  of  election.  And  I  may 
be  able  to  throw  something  in  your  way  —  I  should  like  to,"  said 
Stephen. 

"Why?"  asked  Carrington. 

"Well,  our  first  transaction  couldn't  have  been  very  satisfactory 
to  you." 

"Don't  worry  about  that,  captain;  bless  your  heart,  I  always  knew 
the  business  wasn't  worth  a  damn.  When  do  you  begin  your  canvass  ? " 

"  At  once." 

"Say  supposing  you  don't  get  the  nomination  ?"  and  Mr.  Carring- 
ton surveyed  him  critically.  "Young  man,"  he  said,  "why  don't  you 
pull  out  of  here  while  you  can  ?  Go  West.  What  you  want  is  a  place 
where  you  can  get  out  and  hustle,  and  fill  your  lungs  with  fresh  air. 
Politics!  Why,  sir,  you're  wasting  time  and  money.  You  ain't  cut 
out  for  that  game  —  not  the  way  they  play  it  here." 

And  Stephen  remembered  this  when  the  nomination  he  had  worked 
for  through  all  of  one  hot  summer,  went  to  another.  In  his  bitterness, 
Carrington's  words  remained  with  him,  repeating  themselves  over 
and  over  again;  go  West  —  there  he  could  make  a  start  amid  new 
surroundings,  unhampered  by  the  tradition  of  family  riches  and  posi- 
tion. He  broached  the  subject  to  Marian,  and  found  her  not  only 
willing  but  anxious  to  consider  some  such  change. 

At  this  crisis  in  his  fortunes  Landray  received  a  letter  from  Gibbs. 
The  general  was  now  located  at  a  place  called  Grant  City  in  Kansas; 
located  permanently,  he  informed  Stephen,  and  in  a  region  destined 
soon  to  sustain  a  great  and  thriving  population.  He  entreated  Ste- 
phen not  to  waste  life  and  energy  in  the  overcrowded  East,  when  he 
could  come  West  and  enjoy  the  more  abundant  opportunities  offered 
by  a  new  country.  He  imagined  that  Stephen's  needs  were  somewhat 
similar  to  his  own;  and  in  his  case,  by  all  odds,  the  most  urgent  of 
those  needs  was  the  need  to  make  money.  He  was  convinced  that 
Grant  City  was  the  place  for  this;  he  had  gone  there  early  —  in  fact, 
it  appeared  that  he  had  actually  preceded  the  town  into  Kansas;  for 
with  his  clear  vision  he  had  detected  the  necessity  for  just  such  a 
centre  as  it  was  bound  to  become.  It  was  on  the  projected  line  of  a 
projected  railroad,  it  was  also  the  projected  county  seat  of  a  projected 
county.  It  was  many  things  besides;  but  most  of  all  it  was  clearly  and 
logically  the  spot  for  a  town. 

This  letter  gave  Stephen  what  he  lacked  before,  an  objective  point 


3io  THE  LANDRAYS 

His  mind  fastened  itself  upon  Grant  City.  He  wrote  Gibbs  asking 
for  fuller  particulars,  and  that  there  might  be  no  misconception  on 
the  part  of  the  latter,  informed  him  frankly  that  he  would  have  noth- 
ing to  invest.  Marian  discussed  the  proposed  change  with  him  eag- 
erly, and  did  not  attempt  to  hide  her  impatience;  for  she  knew  that 
if  they  went  at  all  it  must  be  soon  while  the  means  remained  to  them, 
and  if  they  went  to  Grant  City  it  would  not  be  quite  like  going  to  a 
strange  place;  General  Gibbs  would  be  there;  they  could  count  on 
him  to  help  them  where  he  could;  indeed  he  had  intimated  that  he 
had  an  opening  already  prepared  for  Stephen  if  he  would  only  come 
and  take  it. 

"You  must  decide  quickly,"  she  urged.  "Of  course  he  can't  wait 
for  you,  he  will  get  some  one  else." 

"I  suppose  there  is  that  danger,"  said  Stephen  dubiously.  "If  it 
just  wasn't  for  one  or  two  things  I  shouldn't  hesitate,  we'd  start 
West  to-morrow." 

"Yes,  I  know  —  your  aunt.  But  if  it  is  for  your  good,  Stephen." 

"I'll  never  be  able  to  convince  her  of  that,  she  just  won't  believe 
it;  she  thinks  I  should  stay  here  in  Benson,  where  I  belong  and  am 
known." 

"But  what  good  is  there  in  being  known  ?" 

"Little  enough,  apparently;  I'll  write  Gibbs  to-morrow." 

"Don't  be  over-persuaded,  Stephen,"  she  said,  following  him  to 
the  door.  "Your  aunt  won't  want  you  to  go,  but  remember  this  does 
look  like  an  opportunity." 

"I  know  it  does,"  he  said  as  he  left  the  house.  He  admitted  to  him- 
self that  he  was  terribly  anxious,  he  felt  singularly  unfit  for  the  strug- 
gle that  was  before  him;  he  had  no  large  adaptability,  the  power  to 
push  himself  he  was  sensible  he  altogether  lacked;  but  the  West  was 
still  the  West;  there,  muscle  was  capital.  If  his  aunt  could  only  be 
made  to  understand  this;  and  that  she  might,  he  found  himself  pre- 
paring his  arguments  with  such  skill  as  he  had.  He  was  still  doing 
this  when  he  walked  in  on  Virginia. 

"I've  just  had  a  letter  from  General  Gibbs,"  he  observed,  sinking 
into  a  chair  at  her  side.  "You  remember  Gibbs,  don't  you  ?  You 
know  I  told  you  how  I  met  him,  and  that  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  him 
afterward  in  Washington.  He's  gone  to  a  place  in  Kansas  called 
Grant  City;  it's  a  new  town  —  he  wants  me  to  join  him  there." 

"But  surely  you  are  not  going,  Stephen  —  you  have  no  thought  of 
that?"  said  Virginia  quickly.  He  realized  with  a  touch  of  bitterness 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-SIX  3u 

that  much  as  he  might  wish  it,  it  could  not  be  otherwise,  his  pur- 
poses and  desires  would  always  be  at  variance  with  what  she  would 
have  chosen  for  him. 

"Well,  I'm  not  so  sure  about  that,  Aunt  Virginia,"  he  said,  smiling 
moodily. 

"What  does  Marian  say?"  she  asked. 

"She  is  willing  enough.  She  knows  I  must  do  something.  I've 
rather  made  a  failure  of  it  here." 

"I  suppose  if  you  and  Marian  have  decided  that  this  is  the  thing 
for  you  to  do,  Stephen,  no  argument  of  mine  will  have  any  weight 
with  you." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  feel  that  way  about  it;  but  what  am  I  to  do  ? 
I  haven't  any  choice.  There  is  nothing  that  I  can  get  here  that  you 
would  care  to  see  me  take." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  go  West,  Stephen,"  said  Virginia. 

"It's  not  likely  that  I  shall  remain  there  always." 

"If  you  go,  the  more  successful  you  are  the  less  likely  your  return 
will  be." 

"If  there  was  anything  for  me  here,  I  wouldn't  consider  it  —  but 
there  is  nothing,  and  I've  very  little  money  left.  Gibbs  has  something 
definite  for  me." 

"You'll  have  to  decide  for  yourself,  Stephen,"  said  Virginia  with  a 
touch  of  weariness.  "I  don't  know  what  is  best  for  you;  you  only  can 
settle  that  point." 

"Well,  then,  I  think  it's  Grant  City,"  he  answered.  "Fact  is, 
I've  felt  it  was  Grant  City  ever  since  I  heard  there  was  such  a  place. 
It's  too  much  of  a  problem  for  me  here." 

"Would  you  mind  if  I  saw  Mr.  Benson,  and  found  if  he  knew  of 
anything?"  asked  Virginia. 

Stephen  frowned  but  the  frown  cleared  itself  away  almost  imme- 
diately. 

"No,"  he  answered.  "Not  if  you  are  careful  to  let  him  understand 
that  I  don't  ask  you  to,  but  I  don't  think  he  can  or  will  do  anything 
for  me;  still,  if  you  want  to  see  him,  if  it  will  be  any  satisfaction  to 
you,  I'm  quite  willing." 

Virginia  saw  Benson  the  next  day,  for  while  she  had  seemed  to 
accept  Stephen's  decision,  she  was  determined  to  keep  him  near  her 
if  she  could. 

"He  is  arranging  to  go  West  to  General  Gibbs.  I  think  I  told  you 
once  of  their  meeting,"  she  said  to  the  lawyer. 


ji2  THE  LANDRAYS 

Benson  remembered  and  smiled.  He  was  rather  amused  that  Lan- 
dray  should  have  pinned  his  faith  to  Gibbs. 

"Can  nothing  be  done  for  him  here,  Mr.  Benson  —  I  mean  will 
you  do  nothing  ?  Can't  you  see  him  and  discuss  matters  with  him  ?" 
she  asked. 

Benson  moved  impatiently. 

"I  don't  see  what  I  can  do  for  him  now,  I  wish  I  did,  for  your 
sake,  Virginia." 

But  there  was  a  notable  lack  of  warmth  in  what  he  said  that  did 
not  escape  Virginia. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said.  "How  do  you  feel  about  General  Gibbs  ?" 

Benson  smiled. 

"I've  no  doubt  if  Stephen  joins  him  he  will  help  him  in  every  way 
he  can.  There  are  much  worse  men  than  Gibbs." 

It  occurred  to  him  that  he  should  feel  safer  with  Stephen  removed 
to  a  distance;  if  he  stayed  in  Benson  there  was  always  the  danger  that 
he  might  blunder  into  a  knowledge  of  the  advantage  he  had  taken 
of  Virginia. 

"And  you  can  do  nothing?" 

"For  Stephen  ?  I  fear  not,  Virginia." 

"Are  you  not  interested  in  Marian  ?"  she  asked. 

Benson  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Perhaps  I  should  regret  it;  but  such  ties  mean  very  little  to  me; 
and  they  are  meaning  less  and  less  all  the  time." 

"You  have  changed,"  she  said  almost  resentfully.  "Once  I  could 
come  to  you  feeling  that  you  would  do  all  in  your  power  —  ' 

"You  still  may,"  he  interrupted  quickly. 

"No,  it  is  not  as  it  was.  I  have  not  the  same  confidence." 

He  bit  his  lip. 

"Perhaps  the  change  has  been  in  you,  Virginia,"  he  said.  "My 
feeling  toward  you  remains  the  same  —  " 

"I  do  not  mean  that." 

"What  is  the  change  you  think  you  see?"  he  asked  curiously. 

"You  are  less  kind,  for  one  thing." 

"Nonsense,  Virginia!  You  don't  mean  that.  Whatever  I  can  do, 
whatever  I  have  is  yours!  You  know  this  —  and  you  have  asked  so 
little  where  you  might  have  asked  so  much;  I  would  have  lifted  every 
burden!" 

"You  could  not;  they  were  a  part  of  my  life,"  she  said  quietly. 

But  after  she  had  gone,  he  fell  to  wondering  if  he  had  changed- 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-SIX  313 

Not  quite  a  year  had  elapsed  since  he  had  bought  the  land  of  her, 
and  yet  he  was  finding  that  his  business  sense,  his  inherited  taste  for 
a  good  bargain,  was  enabling  him  to  invest  the  proceeds  of  his  fraud 
to  the  utmost  advantage.  He  did  not  seek  to  justify  or  excuse  him- 
self; his  moral  perceptions  were  not  weakened  in  the  least;  but  he 
was  conscious  that  a  hardening  process  was  going  on  in  his  own 
nature.  He  was  less  kind  —  as  she  had  said  —  more  willing  to  seize 
on  an  advantage;  less  under  the  influence  of  his  generous  impulses. 

Stephen  heard  again  from  Gibbs,  and  what  the  general  had  to 
offer  became  the  deciding  influence  that  took  him  West. 

He  parted  from  Virginia  regretfully  enough,  since  he  was  aware 
that  his  return  to  Benson  must  be  uncertain,  and  he  was  depressed 
by  this  conviction.  It  was  true  she  was  not  entirely  alone,  she  had 
Jane  and  Harriett,  but  he  felt  that  in  spite  of  love  and  gratitude, 
he  had  failed  miserably  in  his  relation  to  her. 

Yet  his  spirits  rose  as  he  travelled  West  through  the  autumn  land- 
scape; he  seemed  to  be  leaving  disappointment,  failure,  behind;  and 
a  larger  hope  than  he  had  known  came  to  him  as  the  horizon  lifted 
and  widened. 

They  reached  Kansas  City,  where  following  Gibbs's  instruction 
they  lodged  at  the  small  hotel  from  which  departed  the  tri-weekly 
stage  for  Grant  City.  Taking  the  Saturday's  stage  they  journeyed 
south  and  west. 

The  first  day  took  them  through  a  pleasant  settled  land  dotted 
with  prosperous  looking  farms;  but  it  was  rather  in  the  nature  of  a 
shock  to  Stephen  that  none  of  their  fellow-travellers  in  the  Concord 
coach  had  ever  heard  of  Gibbs  or  of  Grant  City.  Still  the  consensus 
of  opinion  seemed  to  be  that  this  was  nothing  against  either  Gibbs 
or  Grant  City  —  there  might  be  such  a  man,  and  there  might  be 
such  a  town. 

The  driver,  however,  proved  to  be  better  informed;  and  from  him 
Stephen  gleaned  certain  facts  that  went  far  toward  reassuring  him. 
He  had  been  able  to  secure  a  seat  at  his  side  the  second  day,  he  and 
Marian  alone  remaining  of  those  who  had  filled  the  coach  at  its  start. 
According  to  the  driver,  Grant  City  was  right  smart  of  a  place;  did 
he  know  General  Gibbs  ?  Yes,  he  knew  Gibbs  —  every  one  knew 
Gibbs,  he  was  right  smart  of  a  man,  a  busy  bossy  sort  of  a  cuss  who 
was  always  hollering;  it  was  Fourth  of  July  every  day  in  the  week 
and  Sunday,  too,  with  him. 


3i4  THE  LANDRAYS 

He  had  been  very  successful,  Stephen  ventured.  Well,  yes,  the 
man  supposed  so,  but  he  only  had  Gibbs  own  word  for  it. 

They  lapsed  into  silence  after  this,  but  whether  or  not  his  informant 
entirely  approved  of  Gibbs,  Stephen  was  unable  to  decide.  The  driver 
slowly  considered  Stephen  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  then  he 
drawled : 

"You  going  to  Grant  City  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Going  to  start  up  in  business,  maybe?" 

"Perhaps." 

"Know  Gibbs?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  I  guess  you're  all  right  then." 

"There  is  a  hotel,  I  suppose?"  said  Stephen. 

His  question  moved  his  companion  to  something  like  enthusiasm. 

"You  bet  there  is  —  the  Metropolitan  —  Jim  Youtsey  runs  it;  it's 
the  best  place  in  three  counties  to  get  a  square  meal  of  well-cooked 
vittles!" 

"The  town  is  very  new?"  suggested  Stephen. 

"As  new  as  a  two  day's  beard,"  agreed  the  driver. 

"But  a  thriving,  growing  place." 

"A  perfect  mushroom." 

Just  at  sundown  Stephen  caught  his  first  glimpse  of  Grant  City;  3 
huddle  of  houses  on  a  slight  eminence;  and  as  they  drew  nearer  he 
saw  that  these  houses  were  mostly  unpainted  frame  structures  that 
straggled  along  two  sides  of  a  dusty  country  road,  their  rear  doors 
and  back-yards  boldly  facing  the  wide-flung  prairie. 

The  coach  drew  up  in  front  of  the  largest  building  in  the  place.  It 
gave  out  a  pleasant  odour  as  of  new  pine  and  clean  shavings;  across 
its  front  was  hung  a  large  sign  which  announced  it  to  be  the  Metro- 
politan Hotel. 

A  tall  man  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  with  a  sandy  beard,  and  i  quill 
toothpick  held  negligently  between  his  teeth,  stepped  to  the  coach. 
Stephen  conjectured  that  this  was  no  less  a  person  than  Mr.  Jim 
Youtsey  himself. 

"Friends  of  the  general's  ?"  he  inquired  affably. 

"Yes,"  said  Stephen,  stepping  to  the  ground. 

"The  general  asked  me  to  keep  an  eye  peeled  for  you.  He's  over 
in  the  next  county,  will  be  back  to-morrow  if  nothing  happens  —  a 
splendid  man!  You  couldn't  have  a  stronger  indorsement,  sir,  I'm 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-SIX  315 

glad  to  know  you,  glad  to  welcome  you  into  our  midst!"  And  Mr. 
Y  outsey  shot  him  a  sunny  smile  over  the  tip  of  his  toothpick  and  held 
out  his  hand.  "Present  me  to  the  Madame  —  Youtsey's  my  name." 

Stephen  did  so,  and  Mr.  Youtsey  removed  his  hat  with  one  hand 
and  his  toothpick  with  the  other;  his  hat  was  returned  to  his  head,  and 
his  toothpick  to  his  mouth  by  a  common  movement  of  his  two  hands, 
and  he  led  the  way  toward  his  hotel. 

"What  you  see,  sir,  is  the  newest  thing  in  Kansas.  A  year  ago  there 
was  nothing  here  but  sunshine  and  jack-rabbits." 

He  further  begged  Stephen  to  particularly  note  that  Grant  City 
was  not  a  cow  town;  its  wealth  being  derived  entirely  from  the  culti- 
vation of  the  soil;  where  were  the  farms  ?  Just  scattered  about.  Yonder 
was  the  general's  office;  and  through  the  falling  twilight  down  the 
street,  Stephen,  following  the  direction  of  Mr.  Youtsey's  useful 
toothpick,  was  able  to  distinguish  a  very  small  building  with  a  very 
large  sign;  indeed  the  number  and  size  of  these  signs  greatly  aston- 
ished him,  since  no  building  seemed  complete  without  one.  Com- 
menting upon  this  fact,  Mr.  Youtsey  kindly  paused  to  explain  that 
Grant  City  had  assembled  itself  on  the  prairie  with  such  haste,  and 
with  so  little  regard  for  the  proper  housing  of  its  citizens,  that  such 
buildings  as  had  been  erected  were  not  only  places  of  residence,  but 
were  used  as  offices  and  stores  as  well  —  hence  the  signs.  Having 
made  this  point  clear,  Mr.  Youtsey  personally  conducted  them  to 
their  room,  still  accompanied  by  his  hat  and  toothpick,  with  both  of 
which  Le  seemed  loath_  to  part. 

He  left  them,  and  presently  a  small  coloured  boy  appeared  with  a 
pitcher  of  ice-water,  and  the  information  that  supper  was  served.  On 
going  down-stairs  to  the  dining-room,  they  found  Mr.  Youtsey  at  the 
head  of  a  long  table  at  which  were  seated  half  a  score  of  men.  There 
immediately  followed  numerous  introductions.  Of  the  ten  men,  five, 
Stephen  gathered,  were  in  the  real  estate  business;  four  were  recent 
arrivals  like  himself  who  were  looking  about. 

The  last  to  be  introduced  was  a  small  elderly  man  with  a  very  red 
face  and  a  generally  dissipated  air,  whom  Mr.  Youtsey  presented  as 
Dr.  Arling. 

"I  hope  you'll  find  things  home-like  here,  ma'am,"  and  Mr.  Yout- 
sey addressed  himself  to  Marian.  "We  are  shy  on  ladies,  it's  strictly 
a  voting  population."  Then  he  permitted  his  duties  as  host  to  absorb 
him,  and  when  he  had  seen  that  his  guests  were  served,  he  seated 
himself  with  a  pleasant: 


3i6  THE  LANDRAYS 

"Any  one  that  hasn't  had,  just  holler!" 

Stephen's  first  impression  of  Grant  City  had  been  distinctly  un- 
favourable, but  he  said  nothing  of  this  to  Marian;  he  felt  it  would  be 
wiser  to  wait  until  he  saw  Gibbs  before  he  committed  himself  to  an 
opinion. 

He  saw  Gibbs  the  next  morning;  on  going  down  to  the  hotel  office 
he  was  welcomed  by  his  friend  who  fell  upon  him  and  fairly  em- 
braced him,  then  he  held  him  at  arm's  length. 

"Well,  Landray,  I  am  glad  indeed,"  he  ejaculated. 

The  general  was  not  less  florid  than  of  yore,  but  his  face  had  a 
battered  look;  for  the  rest,  he  was  sleek  and  prosperous  to  the  eye. 

"They  tell  me  you've  brought  your  wife,  Landray  —  that  looks 
as  though  you'd  come  to  stay!  I'm  so  sorry  my  Julia  ain't  here,  but 
she's  visiting  friends  in  St.  Louis.  What  do  you  think  of  this  year-old 
child  of  mine  ?  Something  to  have  accomplished  in  a  twelve  month  ?" 
and  the  general  patted  Stephen  affectionately  on  the  back. 

Then  Stephen  must  drink  with  him,  and  they  retired  to  Mr.  Yout- 
sey's  bar  accompanied  by  Dr.  Arling. 

"This  is  to  success,  Landray!"  said  Gibbs  smiling  over  the  rim  of 
his  glass,  and  Stephen  smiled  and  nodded,  too;  Dr.  Arling  merely 
tilted  his  glass  into  a  toothless  cavity  and  drew  the  back  of  his  hand 
across  his  lips,  for  as  Mr.  Youtsey  was  accustomed  to  observe,  "He 
shot  his  slugs  without  a  rest." 

"Another  round,  Jim!"  commanded  the  doctor. 

Mr.  Youtsey  took  the  toothpick  from  between  his  teeth,  he  had 
apparently  acquired  it  along  with  his  clothes  when  he  was  dressed, 
and  said  affably: 

"Ain't  you  a  little  early,  Doc?  You'll  have  a  pair  of  hard-boiled 
eyes  for  breakfast  if  you  keep  on." 

"Shove  along  the  drinks,  don't  keep  the  gentlemen  waiting!" 
ordered  the  doctor  huskily. 

And  Mr.  Youtsey  spun  the  glasses  jingling  across  the  bar. 

The  breakfast  bell  sounded  a  moment  or  two  later,  and  they  left 
Dr.  Arling  leaning  limply  against  the  bar,  while  they  repaired  to  the 
dining-room  where  Gibbs  met  Marian,  and  did  the  honours  with 
great  gallantry. 

"Now,  my  dear  lady,"  said  he,  as  they  rose  from  the  table,  his 
manner  breathing  benevolence  and  urbanity,  "I  am  going  to  take 
this  husband  of  yours  down  to  my  office  for  a  chat  and  smoke." 

When  they  reached  the  street,  Landray  said: 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-SIX  317 

"Well,  general,  prosperity  seems  to  be  smiling  on  you." 

"It's  grinning  from  ear  to  ear;  Grant  City  ain't  pretty;  architec- 
turally she  belongs  to  the  year  one  —  she's  about  the  way  Rome  was 
when  Remus  got  himself  disliked  by  jumping  over  the  wall;  but  it's 
as  good  as  money  in  the  bank." 

"It  seems  to  offer  an  inviting  field  for  real  estate  agents,"  said 
Stephen. 

The  general  laughed. 

"Oh,  don't  let  that  trouble  you,  Landray!  It's  Gibbs's  eggs  that'll 
hatch  out  first,  so  don't  you  worry.  We'll  stand  shoulder  to  shoulder. 
You  haven't  any  capital  ?  Well,  no  matter  —  here  brains  and  charac- 
ter will  see  you  far;  and  you  got  both,  for  you're  a  Landray." 

They  had  reached  the  office  by  this  time,  and  Gibbs  forced  his 
friend  into  his  best  chair;  he  then  provided  Stephen  and  himself 
with  cigars,  and  was  ready  for  business. 

"I  want  you  to  take  right  hold,  Landray,  and  look  after  things," 
he  said.  "I'm  going  to  branch  out;  I  find  I  can't  tie  myself  down- 
the  office  work  don't  suit  me.  We're  not  only  going  to  sell  lots,  we're 
going  to  put  up  the  buildings  on  them  as  well  —  this  will  be  in  your 
department.  I'm  going  to  make  it  my  business  to  keep  Grant  City 
before  the  public.  I'll  have  a  weekly  paper  running  here  inside  of  the 
next  thirty  days,  and  I  got  my  eye  on  a  seat  in  the  State  Legislature, 
too;  I  want  to  play  strong  for  that,  or  a  worse  man  may  fill  it;  but 
you  ain't  interested  in  all  this  yet;  naturally  you're  wanting  to  know 
where  you  come  in  and  what  I  got  to  offer  you.  I'm  going  to  make  you 
the  right  sort  of  a  proposition  here  and  now,  a  proposition  you 
can't  afford  to  turn  down." 

And  Gibbs  was  rather  better  than  his  word,  for  just  twenty-four 
hours  later  Stephen  was  established  in  his  office  with  a  satisfactory 
salary  and  an  interest  in  the  business  as  well. 

He  had  been  inclined  to  look  upon  the  town  as  something  of  a 
farce,  but  he  soon  decided  that  in  this  hasty  opinion  he  had  formed, 
his  judgment  had  been  at  fault.  Men  straggled  in  by  stage  and 
prairie  schooner;  there  was  a  steady  demand  for  lots,  indeed  the  de- 
mand was  only  exceeded  by  the  supply;  and  he  was  rather  dubious 
as  to  the  wisdom  of  the  town-site  speculators  who  with  the  aid  of 
tape  line  and  stakes  seemed  willing  to  apportion  the  greater  part  of 
Kansas  to  the  future  needs  of  Grant  City. 
"They'll  overdo  it,"  he  told  Gibbs. 
"I  guess  not,"  said  Gibbs.  "You  can't  really  overdo  a  good  thing, 


3i8  THE  LANDRAYS 

and  Grant  City's  the  best  thing  in  Kansas.  It's  getting  about  that  it 
is,  too  —  the  public's  waking  up  to  the  fact." 

But  while  Stephen  never  quite  believed  in  the  methods  Gibbs 
seemed  to  consider  so  admirable,  he  saw  that  the  cheap  and  hastily 
erected  houses  they  were  building,  principally  on  credit,  all  found 
tenants  the  moment  they  were  habitable. 

He  and  Marian  lived  in  one  of  these  houses,  one  of  several  that 
formed  an  unpainted  row  that  overlooked  the  dusty  Main  Street 
which  later  when  the  winter  rains  set  in,  became  a  bog  that  the  citi- 
zens —  knowing  its  perils  —  navigated  with  caution.  It  was  here 
that  a  son  was  born  them,  who  was  christened  Stephen  Mason 
Landray. 

Gibbs  would  have  had  this  event  celebrated  in  some  public  man- 
ner; for,  as  he  said,  little  Stephen  was  the  first  native-born  citizen  of 
Grant  City,  but  out  of  consideration  for  Stephen's  wishes  in  the 
matter,  he  compromised  by  deeding  the  child  a  town  lot. 

"It  will  probably  be  worth  thousands  by  the  time  he  comes  of 
age,  Landray,"  he  told  the  father.  "  But  how  is  Marian  ? " 

Stephen  looked  grave. 

"Why,  she  don't  seem  to  rally,"  he  said. 

"What  does  Dr.  Arling  say?"  asked  Gibbs. 

"He  seems  to  think  she  will  have  her  strength  back  as  soon  as  it 
gets  warmer." 

"To  be  sure  she  will,  a  few  mild  days  will  see  her  up  and  about. 
I  have  all  confidence  in  Arling;  I  know  —  I  know,  his  habits  are  not 
what  you'd  look  for  in  a  man  of  his  attainments;  but  it's  no  use  to 
expect  him  to  be  different  from  what  he  is." 

Gibbs  had  established  his  newspaper,  the  Kansas  Epoch,  which 
he  conducted  with  much  noise  and  vigour. 

"There's  no  use  my  denying  it,"  he  told  Stephen,  "but  I  got  the 
editorial  faculty.  A  newspaper  in  my  hands  becomes  a  personal  organ 
in  the  best  sense.  I  reckon  you  can  see  me  in  every  line.  I  take  the 
responsibility  pretty  seriously,  too.  I  know  you  don't  just  believe  in 
the  Epoch,  because  it  don't  show  a  profit  in  dollars  and  cents;  but 
the  loss  in  money's  a  gain  in  prestige." 

Which  was  quite  true,  for  Gibbs  was  the  great  man  locally;  an 
admired  and  respected  presence  at  Mr.  Youtsey's  bar.  It  was  the 
general  here,  and  the  general  there;  the  echo  of  his  name  constantly 
filled  the  ear.  He  was  vain,  bustling,  ostentatious;  the  small  fry  of 
struggling  country  newspapers  heralded  his  passing  to  and  fro  in  the 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-SIX  3 '9 

State  with  much  noise;  for  that  fall  there  had  been  a  hotly  contested 
State  election,  and  Gibbs  with  an  eye  single  to  his  own  advancement 
had  taken  the  stump.  Even  so  far  away  as  St.  Louis  one  of  the  big 
dailies  had  chanced  to  speak  of  him  as  "General  Gibbs  of  Kansas," 
a  tribute  to  his  growing  fame  which  seemed  to  argue  that  he  had 
already  become  almost  a  national  figure.  Perhaps  it  was  this  divided 
interest  that  was  responsible  for  his  business  methods,  for  they 
struck  Stephen  as  being  entirely  haphazard,  nor  could  he  induce  him 
to  make  any  change  here. 

Mrs.  Gibbs  had  returned  to  Grant  City  during  the  winter  fully 
prepared  to  make  friends  with  Marian;  but  Marian  conceived  a  dis- 
like for  her  which  she  was  at  no  pains  to  conceal,  and  in  the  end 
Julia  informed  Gibbs  that  Landray's  wife  was  a  stuck-up  little  fool, 
which  seemed  to  amuse  the  general  immensely. 

Stephen  felt  that  it  might  have  been  to  their  advantage  had 
Marian  sought  to  conciliate  Mrs.  Gibbs,  since  he  did  not  know 
how  Gibbs  himself  might  be  affected;  but  Gibbs  was  affected  not 
at  all;  he  commented  upon  their  mutual  hostility  with  characteristic 
candour. 

"God  bless  'em!  The  ladies  can't  help  it,  Landray,  and  it  might 
be  worse  if  they  were  intimate.  Now,  my  Julia  can't  carry  to  Marian 
any  little  thing  I  chance  to  let  drop  about  you,  and  Marian  can't 
take  up  any  slighting  criticism  you  may  make  of  me.  I  don't  know 
but  that  we  have  a  good  deal  to  be  thankful  for;  anyhow  —  God 
bless  'em,  let  'em  fight  it  out!  It  won't  upset  our  friendship.  I  knew 
from  the  first  that  we  were  cut  out  for  a  business  connection;  you  re 
long-headed  and  conservative;  I  own  I'm  something  of  an  idealist 
—  my  imagination  runs  away  with  me.  You're  the  steady  hand,  and 
by  the  time  we've  talked  a  scheme  over  we  get  together  on  a  pretty 
sane  conclusion." 

To  Stephen  this  was  a  flattering  opinion  that  he  hoped  the  gen 
might  never  have  cause  to  reconsider. 

Apart  from  his  anxiety  concerning  Marian,  Stephen  was  on  the 
whole,  happy  and  well  content  in  Grant  City.  But  Marian  grew  no 
better;  indeed  as  the  summer  advanced,  he  sometimes  fancied  he 
noted  a  change  for  the  worse,  though  Arling,  still  the  only  doci 
in  the  place,  pooh-poohed  this  fear  of  his. 

"Yes,  but  why  don't  she  get  better  ?"  Stephen  would  demand. 

"She  will,  Landray;  give  her  time.  I'm  free  to  say  it  am  t  just 

usual   case,  but  there's  no  organic  trouble,  she  ought  to  be  a  wel 


320  THE  LANDRAYS 

woman."  And  he  would  scuttle  off  in  the  direction  of  Mr.  Youtsey's 
bar,  where  he  could  always  be  found  when  wanted. 

And  all  this  while  Grant  City  seemed  to  grow  and  prosper.  The 
huddle  of  houses  increased  by  the  roadside;  there  were  side  streets 
sparsely  built  upon  it  is  true,  but  there  was  the  beginning  of  a  per- 
ceptible movement  in  this  direction.  The  place  was  taking  on  the 
semblance  of  a  town. 

The  stage  carried  a  constantly  increasing  traffic;  the  tri-weekly 
gave  place  to  a  daily  service;  next  there  was  both  a  midmorning  and 
afternoon  stage,  but  even  this  failed  to  entirely  meet  local  needs,  for 
as  Mr.  Youtsey  said,  the  town  was  throwing  a  fifty-inch  chest. 

There  was  talk  of  issuing  bonds  for  what  Gibbs  called  municipal 
improvements;  the  town-site  speculators  clamoured  for  graded 
streets  and  gas,  and  the  general,  in  the  Epoch,  demanded  a  speedy 
settlement  of  the  vexing  question  of  the  county  seat.  More  than  this 
he  announced  that  he  would  personally  make  it  his  business  to  see 
that  they  secured  the  county  seat;  and  he  took  himself  together  with 
the  logic  of  the  situation  to  the  capital  there  to  lobby  for  the  measure; 
and  all  this  while  the  wilderness  of  pegs  grew  out  upon  the  prairie. 

Winter  came  again  and  brought  a  lull  to  the  trafficking;  but  early 
in  the  spring  a  corps  of  railroad  engineers  pitched  their  camp  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  town,  and  more  additions  were  plotted  and  more 
pegs  driven  to  keep  pace  with  the  impetus  given  by  this  most  recent 
development. 

Gibbs  was  still  at  Topeka  in  the  matter  of  the  county  seat  which 
he  had  not  been  able  to  adjust,  since  Grant  City  had  a  rival  that 
dared  to  claim  this  honour  for  itself,  though  no  one  seriously  regarded 
its  claim  —  certainly  no  one  in  Grant  City,  where  the  town-site  specu- 
lators ridiculed  the  idea  when  it  was  advanced  in  their  hearing,  and 
Gibbs,  in  the  Epoch,  wrote  sarcastic  editorials  that  were  much 
admired,  and  that  proved  as  clearly  as  pen  and  ink  can  prove  any- 
thing, the  county  seat  must  come  to  Grant  City. 

But  one  night  after  Stephen  had  gone  home  to  his  sick  wife,  he 
heard  a  loud  knock  at  his  door,  and  on  going  down  to  answer  this 
summons,  found  Gibbs,  whom  he  had  supposed  to  be  still  in  Topeka, 
standing  on  the  threshold. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-SEVEN 

GIBBS,  his  battered  face  red  and  perspiring,  tramped  the 
length  of  the  room  without  speech;  then  he  turned  and 
tramped  back  again. 

"When  did  you  get  to  townT"  asked  Stephen,  putting  down  the 
lamp  he  carried.  He  knew  that  Gibbs  had  not  come  on  the  afternoon 
stage  for  he  had  been  in  the  crowd  at  the  hotel  when  it  arrived. 

"Oh,  I  missed  the  stage,  and  got  a  man  to  drive  me  across,"  said 
the  general,  pausing  and  moodily  mopping  his  face.  "Well,  what 
they  did  to  us  up  at  Topeka  ain't  a  little.  We  don't  get  the  county 
seat!  I  don't  know  who  gets  it,  but  we  won't  —  you  can  everlastingly 
make  up  your  mind  to  that!" 

"Is  there  nothing  you  can  do?" 

"Do!"  cried  the  general  in  a  tone  of  infinite  disgust.  "I  didn't  have 
a  chance  to  do!" 

Stephen  looked  his  dismay. 

"A  little  public  spirit  and  we  might  have  landed  it,  but  I  was 
left  to  give  my  time  and  spend  my  money,  as  if  my  personal  influence 
unsupported,  was  all  that  was  needed!  I  been  made  to  look  foolish! 
Well,  when  they  ask  me  where  those  county  buildings  are,  I'll  tell 
'em  they  can  search  me!"  and  the  general  shrugged  his  shoulders  to 
indicate  the  indifference  he  did  not  feel.  "It's  news  to  sleep  on,  ain't 
it?"  continued  Gibbs.  "Grant  City's  given  itself  county  seat  airs 
from  the  start,  now  all  we  got  to  do  is  to  lose  the  railroad,  and  we 
might  just  as  well  shut  up  shop.  Well,  we  ain't  lost  the  railroad." 

"No,"  said  Stephen  clutching  at  this  hope.  "The  engineers  are  in 
camp  here  now." 

"It's  going  to  give  us  a  set  back,"  said  the  general,  who  was  still 
thinking  of  the  county  seat.  "But  I  reckon  we're  strong  enough  to 
stand  it  —  annoying  though,  ain't  it  ?"  and  he  paused  in  his  tramp- 
ing which  he  had  resumed,  to  stare  hard  at  Stephen.  "How  do  you 
feel  about  it  anyhow  ?"  he  asked. 

321 


322  THE  LANDRAYS 

"It's  a  calamity,"  said  Landray  gravely. 

"It  certainly  is,"  agreed  the  general.  "We  thought  we  had  it  sure, 
didn't  we  ?  Well,  there  is  such  a  thing  as  being  too  sure.  I  tell  you, 
Steve,  we  ain't  the  only  fellows  in  Kansas  with  land  to  sell;  there 
was  plenty  of  others  in  the  same  line,  and  I  went  up  against  'em  hard 
at  the  capital,  and  they  sat  down  pat  on  our  little  scheme.  We  got  to 
go  slow,  things  will  come  steady  presently,  but  until  they  do  we 
got  to  slack  off  on  the  building.  I  am  sorry  I  got  you  up  to  tell  you 
nothing  better  than  this;  don't  worry  though.  How's  Mrs.  Lan- 
dray?" 

"About  the  same." 

"Humph!  What  does  Arling  say?  I  wonder  if  you  hadn't  better 
get  away  from  here,  Steve  ? "  asked  the  general  with  kindly  concern. 

"And  leave  you  to  face  the  crisis  ?" 

"It  won't  be  the  first  one  I've  faced,"  and  Gibbs  expanded  his 
chest.  "Maybe  the  climate  just  don't  agree  with  her." 

"No,  I  sha'n't  leave  you;  and  I  doubt  if  Marian  could  make  the 
change  now." 

"Well,  you  know  best,  Landray,  only  don't  let  any  sense  of 
honour  hold  you  here  when  it's  to  your  interest  to  leave.  I'm  willing 
to  split  with  you  to-morrow  if  you  say  the  word,  and  I'll  think  none 
the  less  of  you.  I  ain't  always  been  above  running  away  myself.  Just 
remember  there's  some  money  to  divide  now,  and  there  may  not  be 
a  red  cent  six  months  hence." 

"I'll  chance  it,"  said  Stephen  firmly. 

"Just  as  you  like,  but  I  want  you  to  know  that  I  don't  consider 
you  in  any  ways  obligated  to  me.  You  have  earned  all  you  have  had 
out  of  the  business  ;  it  wouldn't  set  well  for  me  to  pretend  other- 
wise." 

"Thank  you,  general,"  said  the  younger  man  gratefully. 

"Well,  it's  so.  You  sleep  on  what  I've  said." 

Then  the  general  took  his  leave,  and  Stephen  went  back  to  his 
bed,  but  not  to  sleep.  He  had  thought  himself  on  the  high  road  to 
fortune,  and  all  at  once  things  began  to  look  black.  In  the  morning 
he  went  early  to  the  office  where  Gibbs  soon  joined  him.  He  looked 
into  Stephen's  grave  face  and  smiled. 

"I  guess  my  call  didn't  give  you  pleasant  dreams,  Landray.  I've 
thought  it  over  and  I  guess  we'll  just  keep  quiet  and  see  what  hap- 
pens." 

But  before  the  day  was  over,  it  was  evident  that  the  information 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-SEVEN  323 

Gibbs  brought  from  Topeka  was  not  held  by  him  alone.  Before 
night  there  was  a  well-developed  stampede  among  the  owners  of  lots. 
This  acted  on  Gibbs  rather  differently  from  what  might  have  been 
expected. 

"We'll  show  'em,"  he  said,  "that  we  got  confidence;  let  'em  get  in 
a  panic,  let  'em  get  rid  of  their  lots,  let  'em  play  the  damn  fool, 
Grant  City's  here  to  stay!  It's  got  a  future  in  the  very  nature  of 
things.  We  don't  need  the  county  seat;  they  can  locate  that  wherever 
they  blame  please;  but  we  do  want  to  get  rid  of  these  speculators,  I 
always  been  opposed  to  speculation.  I'd  rather  see  things  go  back  ta 
the  normal,  even  if  we  do  lose;  I  would  so,  Stephen." 

But  hard  on  the  news  that  Grant  City  was  not  to  get  the  county- 
seat,  came  the  news  that  neither  was  it  to  get  the  railroad. 

"It's  a  lie!  They  can't  afford  to  ignore  us!"  cried  Gibbs  when  he 
heard  this.  "It's  a  trick  to  depress  real  estate!  Any  one  who's  fooled1 
by  it  deserves  to  get  skinned  out  of  his  last  dollar." 

But  the  rumour  was  verified,  and  even  Gibbs  wTas  forced  to  own 
that  for  the  present  at  least  they  had  lost  the  railroad. 

"You  ain't  involved,  Landray,"  he  told  Stephen.  "You  stood  to 
share  only  in  the  profits;  and  I  can't  lose  much,  for  I  hadn't  five  hun- 
dred dollars  when  I  came  here,  and  I  got  seventy  or  eighty  lots  that 
are  worth  something,  and  fifteen  or  twenty  houses." 

Here  Stephen  recalled  to  his  mind  the  fact  that  these  houses  were 
in  the  main  unpaid  for,  and  that  his  creditors  might  swoop  down 
upon  him  at  any  moment. 

"My  creditors?  Oh,  hell  —  let  'em  sweat!"  and  the  general 
snapped  his  fingers  almost  gaily,  and  said  in  the  same  breath,  "I 
expect  you're  cussing  me,  Steve,  for  fetching  you  here." 

"Nothing  of  the  kind,  general!"  said  Stephen  stoutly. 

"If  I  fooled  you,  I  fooled  myself,  Steve;  I  knew  there  was  some  I 
foxy  gentlemen  in  this  part  of  Kansas,  but  I  thought  I  was  the  foxiest  J 
thing  on  two  legs.  I  have  had  my  ambitions  too,  Steve,  and  they  ain't 
dead  yet,  a  man  of  my  calibre  don't  give  up  readily;  but  I'm  adapt- 
able. I  don't   sit   down  to  weep  over   an  unpropitious  occasion,  in 
some  fashion  I  dominate  it.  For  the  present  I  suppose^there  is  noth- 
ing for  us  to  do  but  wait  and  see  how  things  turn  out." 

And  through  one  long  hot  summer  they  watched  things  turn  out. 
They  saw  the  departure  of  the  town-site  speculators;  they  saw  the 
settlement  of  tents  and  prairie  schooners  disappear  from  the  waste 
beyond  the  town,  until  at  last  there  was  only  the  rolling  plain,  with 


$24  THE  LANDRAYS 

its  thousands  of  pegs  that  marked  the  lots  of  the  various  subdivisions, 
or  the  streets  by  which  they  were  to  be  reached;  and  with  this  swift 
panoramic  change  came  a  leaden  depression  which  ate  into  the  very 
soul.  There  was  no  more  poker  at  the  Metropolitan,  once  a  feature 
of  the  nightly  gatherings  there;  the  wilderness  of  signs  creaked  idly 
in  the  breeze;  half  the  houses  stood  tenantless;  the  stages  ceased  to 
rumble  in  and  out  of  town;  the  remnant  of  a  population  loafed  in 
,  heavy  lethargetic  idleness. 

Gibbs  and  Stephen  sat  through  that  long  summer,  idly  for  the  most 
jjart,  in  their  shirt-sleeves  in  the  shade  of  their  office;  the  only  bus- 
iness they  had  was  to  see  Gibbs's  creditors,  and  in  the  end  these 
ceased  to  trouble  them. 

At  first  Stephen  had  been  somewhat  sustained  by  Gibbs's  confi- 
dence; for  Gibbs  had  been  sure  things  would  come  right,  that  the 
depression  was  only  temporary  ;  but  in  the  end  even  his  fine  cour- 
age failed  him.  He  spent  less  and  less  time  in  the  shade  of  his  office, 
and  more  and  more  time  at  Mr.  Youtsey's  bar;  but  at  last  Mr.  Yout- 
sey  announced  that  he  was  about  to  leave  to  seek  fortune  elsewhere. 

"I've  sat  up  with  the  corpse,"  he  told  Gibbs  jocosely,  "and  now 
I'm  going  to  pull  out.  I  leave  the  last  words  to  you,  for  you  seem  to 
be  chief  mourner ;  I  reckon  you'll  stay  to  the  finish." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  retorted  Gibbs  briskly.  "You  can't 
keep  a  squirrel  on  the  ground;  but  I'm  free  to  say  I  don't  want  to 
make  any  mistakes  next  time.  I'm  getting  along  to  a  time  in  life  when 
I  don't  expect  to  make  more  than  two  or  three  more  fortunes  before 
I  quit." 

"Well,  you  don't  squeal  none,  general,  that's  what  I  admire 
about  you;  win  or  lose,  there's  a  kind  word  still  coming,"  said  Mr. 
Youtsey  admiringly. 

In  private  to  Stephen,  Gibbs  deplored  the  conditions  which  he 
semed  to  think  were  largely  responsible  for  their  present  situation; 
he  was  seeing  deeper  than  the  mere  surface  of  things. 

"The  war  was  a  mistake,  Steve;  patriotism  and  sentiment  aside, 
it  was  a  big  mistake.  It's  knocked  half  the  country  into  a  cocked  hat. 
The  South  is  dead,  and  in  my  opinion  we  won't  live  long  enough  to 
see  it  come  to  life.  If  it  had  been  just  left  alone,  it  would  have  been 
mighty  interesting  to  have  seen  how  it  would  have  settled  the  nigger 
question.  And  what's  been  the  result  to  the  nation  at  large;  we've 
lost  over  half  a  million  of  men  —  young  men  who'd  a  pushed  out 
into  the  West  here,  and  made  this  country  a  wonder.  We  wouldn't 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-SEVEN  325 

be  waiting  for  population  if  they'd  lived.  But  it  wasn't  to  be!  The 
country's  filling  up  with  all  sorts  of  riff-raff  from  Europe,  a  class 
that  never  used  to  come;  not  the  good  English  and  Scotch  and  Irish, 
who  came  because  they  wanted  elbow  room;  but  greasy  serfs,  who 
ain't  caring  a  damn  for  anything  but  wages.  I  tell  you  in  twenty  years 
an  American  will  be  a  curiosity.  And  to  think  the  way  they  were 
wasted,  just  thrown  at  each  other  by  the  thousands,  in  the  greatest 
and  crudest  war  of  modern  times." 

But  Stephen  could  not  sit  there  gossiping  with  Gibbs  while  Grant 
City  sank  into  the  prairie,  or  its  shabbily  built  houses  collapsed 
about  his  ears;  he  must  do  something,  yet  what  was  he  to  do  ? 
Gibbs  came  to  his  rescue  with  a  suggestion. 

"I  been  thinking  of  your  luck,  Steve,"  he  said  one  day  with  kindly 
concern.  "I  can  hold  up  this  building  quite  a  while  by  myself  just  by 
leaning  against  it;  I  reckon  it  will  be  about  a  hundred  years  before 
anybody  sells  a  lot  again  in  Grant  City,  and  you  can't  wait  on  that, 
on  the  chance  that  you  will  be  the  lucky  fellow." 

"If  I  could  go!"  cried  Stephen,  with  savage  earnestness. 

"But  you  can't!  Now  look  here,  the  farmers  have  had  a  pretty 
good  season;  you  can  always  sell  a  farmer  improved  machinery, 
and  I  understand  you  can  secure  an  agency  without  any  capital  to 
speak  of." 

"Why  don't  you  try  something  of  the  sort?"  asked  Landray. 

Gibbs  shook  his  head. 

"I'm  too  old  a  man,  Steve,  to  knock  about  the  country  the^way  I'd 
havt  to;  besides,  I'm  getting  ready  to  start  up  in  business." 

"Start  up  in  what  ?"  cried  Stephen. 

"In  a  small  way  in  the  licker  business,"  said  the  general  with 
dignity. 

"You  mean  a  saloon  ?" 

The  general  averted  his  eyes. 

"Well,  yes  — it  will  have  to  be  retail  —  I  suppose  you  might 
almost  call  it  a  saloon,"  he  admitted  reluctantly. 

"We  are  coming  down  between  us,  general,"  said  Landray  with  a 
scornful  laugh. 

"Not  at  all,  Steve,  not  at  all.  I've  never  claimed  more  than  that  1 
was  up  to  the  occasion,  and  Youtsey's  quit  here;  fact  is,  before  he 
left  I  made  a  dicker  for  what  was  left  of  his  stock.  His  going  makes 
an  opening  for  a  commercial  enterprise  of  this  sort  —  in  a  small  way, 
of  course." 


j26  THE  LANDRAYS 

"Very  small,  I  should  say." 

"No,  Steve,  you  must  own  there  are  a  few  people  left;  not  many, 
but  a  few;  and  they  are  not  going  to  be  any  less  thirsty  in  the  future 
than  they  have  been  in  the  past.  I'm  not  counting  on  riches,  but 
merely  enough  to  tide  me  over  until  I  see  an  opening.  Maybe  the 
venture  might  justify  a  partnership;  if  you  think  it  will,  I'm  ready 
to  whack  up,"  concluded  Gibbs  generously. 

*      "Excuse  me,  general,"  said  the  young  man  haughtily,  "but  we'll 
reserve  that  until  the  last."  He  saw  that  Gibbs  was  hurt  by  his  words 
}  and  manner,  and  hastened  to  add,  "I  think  your  first  suggestion  was 
the  best,  do  you  know  where  I  should  write  ?" 

"There  are  all  sorts  of  catalogues  in  the  office.  I'd  write  to  half  a 
dozen  different  firms.  I  merely  suggested  this  as  a  temporary  make- 
shift ;  you  might  add  insurance  and  lightning-rods." 

"We'll  stop  with  the  farm  implements,  more  than  that  would 
only  be  funny  ;  and  I'm  in  desperate  need." 

"I  really  shouldn't  wonder  if  you  didn't  do  quite  well,  Landray, 
after  you  get  started,"  Gibbs  said,  with  ready  faith  in  this  new  enter- 
prise. "The  farmers  farm  the  land,  you'll  farm  the  farmers;"  and 
Stephen's  letters  not  appearing  sufficiently  hopeful  in  tone  to  his 
critical  mind,  he  ended  by  drafting  them  for  him.  "Now  I  reckon 
they'll  get  you  consideration,"  said  he,  when  their  labours  came  to 
an  end.  "What!  You  ain't  got  any  stamps  ?  Why  didn't  you  tell  me 
you  were  that  hard  put  ?  I  ain't  got  much  myself,  but  I  always  put 
down  a  little  nest-egg.  I  hoped  you'd  done  the  same  —  why  didn't 
you  tell  me  ?" 

He  brought  from  an  inner  pocket  an  old  leathern  wallet;  it  was 
limp  enough,  but  it  contained  two  twenty  dollar  bills,  one  of  which 
he  forced  Stephen  to  accept. 

"I  never  give  up  quite  all;  and  if  I'd  known  about  the  county  seat 
a  week  earlier,  there'd  a  been  a  few  more  gone  broke  here,  but  it 
wouldn't  been  you  or  me,  Steve  ?" 

A  week  later  Stephen  was  present  at  the  formal  opening  of  the 
Golden  West  Saloon  in  their  former  office,  Gibbs  presiding  with 
typical  versatility 

There  still  lingered  in  Grant  City  those  who  either  could  not  get 
away  or  were  too  indifferent  to  try,  whose  imagination  had  utterly 
failed  them;  and  occasionally,  though  rarely,  the  wagons  of  emi- 
grants paused  for  repairs  at  the  blacksmith's;  thus  there  was  still 
the  semblance  of  life,  though  half  the  houses  in  the  town  stood 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-SEVEN  327 

vacant ;  these  seemed  to  fade  away,  to  disappear  in  the  rank  grass 
that  had  come  back  to  flourish  in  the  small  trampled  lots,  and  in  the 
midst  of  this  universal  decay,  this  final  phase  of  the  small  tragedy 
of  settlement,  Stephen  waited  and  organized  the  business  Gibbs 
had  suggested,  but  with  no  large  measure  of  faith  in  it. 

If  Marian's  condition  would  only  improve  sufficiently  so  that  they 
might  quit  Grant  City,  he  was  almost  certain  that  by  some  tremen- 
dous effort  the  money  he  would  then  require  would  be  forthcoming. 
However  when  he  finally  got  to  work  the  effect  on  him  was  that 
of  a  tonic;  and  through  that  fall,  and  the  ensuing  winter,  over  des- 
perately bad  roads,  he  travelled  far  and  wide;  and  by  spring  when  he 
began  to  reap  the  benefits  of  his  winter's  work,  he  saw  that  he  was 
not  only  clear  of  debt  but  that  he  had  actually  made  some  money. 

And  while  he  toiled  for  her,  Marian  was  left  alone  with  a  slatternly 
unattached  female,  who  was  both  housekeeper  and  nurse;  and  for 
medical  attendant  there  was  Dr.  Arling,  who  found  Grant  City  en- 
tirely congenial.  Drunk  and  sodden,  he  was  not  unskillful;  and  when 
he  was  needed  he  could  always  be  found  at  the  Golden  West  Saloon, 
where  he  loafed  tirelessly,  and  where  he  played  countless  games  of 
checkers  with  Gibbs. 

It  never  occurred  to  Stephen  that  Marian  might  not  recover.  To 
him  it  seemed  only  a  question  of  time  until  her  strength  would  re- 
turn; but  he  was  the  only  one  who  was  really  ignorant  of  her  condi- 
tion. Arling  had  no  doubts  as  to  what  the  end  would  be,  nor  had 
Mrs.  Bassett,  the  sick  woman's  attendant. 

The  end,  when  it  came,  came  when  he  was  least  prepared  to  meet 
it.  It  was  fall  again,  and  he  had  driven  in  from  the  country  to  be 
with  Marian  over  Sunday.  He  had  stabled  his  horse,  and  had  come 
up  from  the  barn,  lantern  in  hand,  cold  and  stiff  from  his  drive  home 
from  a  farm  far  out  on  the  plains. 

Mrs.  Bassett  was  in  the  little  kitchen  fussing  over  his  jupper  when 
he  entered  the  house  by  the  back  door.  She  had  seen  his  light  in  the 
stable.  .  _  - 

"I'll   have  your  supper   ready  for  you  in  just  a  minute,  Mr. 
Landray,"  she   said.  "You've    got  time   to  run  up   and  see  Mis 
Landray.  She  knows  you're  back,  I  called  up  and  told  her  you  d 
come." 

"How  is  she  ?"  asked  Stephen.  „ 

"Well   she  seems  to  be  about  the  same,  I  don't  see  no  difference, 
answered  Mrs.  Bassett  guardedly.  She  turned  and  followed  him 


328  THE  LANDRAYS 

with  her  eyes  as  he  went  through  the  sitting-room  and  entered  the 
narrow  front  hall  from  which  the  stairs  led  to  the  floor  above. 

He  was  gone  but  a  moment,  then  he  came  quickly  into  the  kitchen, 
his  face  very  white. 

"She  is  worse!"  he  said  in  a  husky  whisper.  "Why  didn't  you  tell 
me  so  ?"  but  he  did  not  wait  for  an  answer.  "Where  is  the  child  ?" 
he  demanded. 

"I  carried  him  across  the  back  lots  to  Mis'  Gibbs  a  spell  ago.  I 
couldn't  tend  him  and  her,  too,  he  was  real  fretful." 

"I  must  go  for  the  doctor,"  said  Stephen. 

"You  needn't,  Mr.  Landray,  Mis'  Gibbs  said  she'd  go  to  the 
saloon  for  him;  I  seen  her  lantern  just  a  moment  ago.  You'd  best 
have  something  to  eat,"  she  urged. 

He  turned  away  impatiently. 

"I'm  not  hungry.  Have  the  doctor  come  up-stairs  as  soon  as  he 
gets  here." 

But  when  Arling  arrived  a  few  moments  later,  accompanied  by 
Gibbs,  and  joined  Stephen  in  the  chamber  above  where  he  sat  hold- 
ing his  vrife's  hand  in  both  his  own,  he  merely  shook  his  head.  It  was 
as  he  had  expected,  only  the  end  had  been  longer  deferred  than  he 
had  thought  possible.  He  stole  from  the  room  and  rejoined  Gibbs 
in  the  kitchen. 

"You  tell  him,  Gibbs  —  I  can't,"  he  said. 

Gibbs  rubbed  his  straggling  unkempt  beard  with  a  tremulous 
hand. 

"Maybe  he  don't  need  to  be  told,"  he  suggested.  "But  if  you  think 
he  should  be,  I'll  do  it;"  and  he  stood  erect,  with  something  of  his 
old  air. 

He  mounted  the  creaking  stairs.  Stephen  must  have  heard  him 
coming,  for  he  opened  the  door  and  stepped  out  into  the  narrow  hall, 
that  was  barely  large  enough  to  hold  the  two  men  and  the  small 
stand,  where  Mrs.  Bassett  had  placed  a  smoky  lamp  with  a  dirty 
chimney. 

"Where's  the  doctor  —  why  don't  he  come  back?"  Landray  de- 
manded in  a  fierce  whisper.  "Is  the  drunken  fool  going  to  do  noth- 
ing?" 

"Steve,"  began  the  general,  with  white  shaking  lips,  "Steve,  bear 
up,  Arling  says  there  ain't  anything  he  can  do." 

Stephen  looked  at  him,  scarce  comprehending  what  it  was  he 
said. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-SEVEN  329 

"He  don't  know  what  he's  talking  about  —  the  fool's  drunk!"  he 
said  roughly. 

"I  reckon  he  is,"  lamented  Gibbs  weakly.  "I'd  a  had  him  under 
the  pump  if  there'd  been  time,  but  my  Julia  said  for  him  to  hurry, 
and  I  closed  up  and  brought  him  along  just  as  he  was,  he  wasn't 
fit  to  come  by  himself." 

"Send  him  up  here  again,"  said  Stephen  with  stern  insistence. 
"There  is  something  he  can  do  —  my  God-  "  and  he  broke  off 
abruptly  and  re-entered  his  wife's  room. 

"Come!"  said  Gibbs,  when  he  had  returned  to  the  kitchen. 
"Come,  stir  around!"  he  ordered,  laying  a  hand  on  Arling's  shoul- 
der. "Come,  there's  something  you  can  do,  and  you've  got  to  do- 
it." He  was  in  a  panic  of  haste.  He  snatched  up  his  dingy  medicine 
case  and  thrust  it  into  Arling's  shaking  hands.  "He's  waiting  for 
you,  go  up  and  do  what  you  can." 

"Haven't  you  told  him,  Gibbs?  She  is  dying,  all  he's  got  to  do 
is  to  look  at  her  to  see  that." 

"You're  the  one  to  tell  him  then  —  poor  Steve  —  you  go  to  him. 
I  must  go  fetch  my  Julia  and  the  baby;"  and  he  stumbled  out  into 
the  darkness  with  neither  hat  nor  lantern,  and  fled  across  the  back 
lots  toward  the  light  that  burned  in  his  own  window. 

He  soon  returned  with  Julia,  who  went  at  once  to  the  room  above. 
In  the  narrow  hall  she  encountered  Arling,  who  had  just  come  from 
Marian's  bedside,  where  he  had  administered  to  her  some  simple 
restorative.  She  brushed  past  him  without  a  word. 

"Thank   you  for    coming,  it's   good  to  have  a  woman  about, 
murmured  Stephen,  glancing  toward  the  door  as  she  entered. 

Marian  lay  on  the  bed  without  speech  or  movement,  but  her  eyes, 
now  brilliant  and  filled  with  a  strange  light,  followed  every  move- 
ment of  the  two.  Julia,  with  Stephen's  help,  made  her  more  com- 
fortable; they  smoothed  her  pillows  and  raised  her  higher  on  them 
for  Mrs.  Gibbs  had  been  quick  to  see  that  her  breath  came 

difficulty.  ...     .  , 

She  had  never  liked  Marian,  and  Marian  had  never  liked  her- 
but  she  had  forgotten  all  this  -  which,  after  all,  was  only  that  chance 
which  determines  who  shall  love  and  who  shall  hate   Now  she  was 
all    tenderness,  this    brisk    energetic  woman,  with   the   lines  of 
shrewish  temper  already  stamped  upon  her  face;  and  her  glan 
always  softened  when  she  looked  at  Stephen. 

There  was  little  either  could  do  but  wait;  and  Marian,  save  for 


330  THE  LANDRAYS 

the  look  in  her  eyes  and  their  restless  turning,  gave  no  sign  that 
she  knew  what  was  passing  about  her. 

Presently  Julia  stole  down-stairs  to  the  kitchen.  She  found  Mrs. 
Bassett,  the  general,  and  Arling  still  there;  the  boy  fast  asleep  in  her 
husband's  arms. 

"Law!"  she  cried.  "Haven't  any  of  you  had  sense  enough  to  put 
that  child  to  bed  ?"  and  she  whisked  him  out  of  Gibbs's  arms  and 
carried  him  into  the  adjoining  room. 

After  that  the  four  fell  to  watching  the  clock  as  if  the  slow  moving 
hands  would  tell  them  when  all  was  over;  and  as  they  watched,  the 
row  of  ragged  lights  in  the  uncurtained  windows  that  looked  out  upon 
Grant  City's  Main  Street,  disappeared  one  by  one,  and  it  was  mid- 
night and  very  still. 

At  last  Julia  rose  from  her  chair  and  without  a  word  went  up-stairs; 
she  seemed  to  know  that  all  was  over.  She  noiselessly  pushed  open 
the  door  and  entered  the  room. 

Stephen's  face  was  buried  in  the  pillow  beside  his  wife's.  A  glance 
told  her  what  had  happened  during  her  absence  from  the  room.  She 
stepped  to  the  bedside  and  placed  her  hand  gently  on  the  man's 
shoulder;  she  felt  him  shrink  from  the  sudden  touch. 

"Come,"  she  said  kindly.  "You  mustn't  stay  here  any  longer,  Mr. 
Landray.  You  go  on  down-stairs  and  ask  Mrs.  Bassett  to  come  up 
here  to  me." 

"Is  she —  "  he  gasped  chokingly. 

He  had  risen  to  his  feet,  and  she  urged  him  away  from  the  bedside 
with  gentle  but  determined  force. 

"You  must  go  down-stairs,  Mr.  Landray,"  she  insisted. 

"She  never  spoke  —  never  once,"  he  cried,  turning  his  bloodshot 
eyes  on  her. 

"But  she  knew  you;  do  go  down-stairs,  Mr.  Landray,  indeed, 
you  mustn't  stay  here  any  longer." 

She  had  pushed  him  from  the  room  as  she  spoke,  and  he  crossed 
the  hall  and  went  slowly  and  heavily  down  the  narrow  steps. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-EIGHT 

IF  Virginia  had  been  unable  to  influence  Stephen's  life  as  she 
wished,  this  was  far  from  being  the  case  with  Jane  and  Har- 
riett, who  had  wholly  abandoned  themselves  to  her  care  and 
control,  which  had  to  do,  unselfishly  enough,  with  their  comfort 
and  convenience.  They  were  also  indebted  to  her  for  their  mental 
outlook.  They  echoed  her  opinions  and  acquired  her  convictions,  by 
which  they  endured  with  unshaken  pertinacity,  and  she  had  furnished 
them  with  such  prejudices  as  had  found  a  home  in  their  gentle  un- 
worldly hearts.  In  sentiment  they  were  quite  as  much  Landray  as 
she  was  herself;  and  their  pride  in  the  name  was  quite  equal  to  her 
own  pride  in  it;  while  their  affection  for  her  was,  aside  from  their 
affection  for  each  other,  quite  the  deepest  emotion  in  their  simple 
lives. 

Under  these  conditions  Harriett  had  grown  into  young  woman- 
hood, a  shy  pretty  girl,  who  looked  out  upon  the  world  with  soft,  in- 
experienced eyes.  But  her  father's  death,  and  Stephen  Landray's, 
and  perhaps  more  than  all,  Virginia's  beauty  and  silent  devotion  to 
her  dead  husband,  had  supplied  a  background  of  romance  and  mys- 
tery of  which  she  was  never  wholly  unconscious.  Of  society,  as  it  was 
understood  in  Benson,  she  knew  nothing;  her  mother  had  never 
made  any  friends  in  the  town,  and  Virginia's  own  circle  had  nar- 
rowed; she  went  nowhere. 

Some  day  Harriett  knew  she  would  teach;  this  Virginia  and  Jane 
had  decided  for  her.  It  was  their  conviction  that  it  was  the  one  thing 
a  young  lady  could  do  without  compromising  her  position,  it  was 
entirely  dignified,  a  polite  and  unexceptional  occupation  where 
one  was  so  unfortunate  as  to  have  her  own  future  to  consider;  and 
so  to  teach,  Harriett  was  fitting  herself,  when  something  happened 
which  materially  changed  all  her  plans. 

Mr.  Stark,  who  for  many  years  had  been  the  pioneer  banker  in 
Benson,  had  long  since  gone  to  his  reward,  and  now  there  were  sev- 

331 


332  THE  LANDRAYS 

eral  banks  in  the  town;  chief  of  these  was  the  County  Bank  where 
the  interest  on  certain  loans  which  Benson  had  made  for  Virginia, 
with  the  money  he  had  given  her  for  the  land  in  Belmont  County, 
was  regularly  paid.  Here  Harriett  often  went  for  Virginia,  and  it  was 
here  she  first  met  Mark  Norton,  whose  uncle,  Judge  Norton,  was 
interested  in  the  fortunes  of  the  bank;  indeed,  young  Norton  was 
supposed  to  be  mastering  the  intricacies  of  the  banking  business 
under  the  judge's  eye. 

He  came  of  an  excellent  family  in  the  county,  and  Harriett  had 
frequently  observed  the  young  fellow.  She  had  even  noted  that  after 
business  hours,  the  easy  hours  of  banks,  he  indulged  himself  in 
the  pleasure  of  driving  most  excellent  horses.  His  father  was  a  rich 
farmer,  which  doubtless  had  much  to  do  with  the  soundness  of  the 
son's  judgment  in  the  matter  of  horse-flesh;  it  also  explained  why  it 
was  that  he  was  able  to  keep  fast  horses,  a  luxury  not  within  the 
reach  of  the  ordinary  bank  clerk.  Harriett  had  seen  all  this,  as  he 
frequently  drove  past  the  cottage  presumably  on  his  way  into  the 
country  beyond.  It  afterward  developed  that  Norton  had  observed 
the  slight  figure  of  the  girl  on  the  lawn  in  front  of  the  cottage  with  the 
two  elder  ladies,  and  he  had  noted  that  she  was  very  pretty  —  sin- 
gularly pretty,  he  would  have  said. 

But  it  was  Harriett's  privilege  not  only  to  see  him  in  his  hours  of 
recreation,  but  also  when  she  went  to  the  bank  on  some  errand  for 
Virginia.  He  never  ventured  on  anything  that  could  be  termed  con- 
versation, though  he  occasionally  appeared  to  be  anxious  to  discover 
Miss  Walsh's  opinion  on  such  impersonal  subjects  as  the  weather; 
or  if  it  was  a  warm  day  he  obligingly  called  her  attention  to  that  fact. 
He  always  addressed  her  as  Miss  Walsh.  He  had  been  almost  the 
first  person  who  found  such  formality  necessary,  and  that  he  did, 
had  provoked  her  to  a  new  and  gratifying  emotion. 

But  on  one  occasion  when  she  stopped  at  the  bank,  he  was  rather 
more  disposed  to  talk  than  was  usual  with  him,  but  Miss  Walsh  was 
in  some  haste  to  go,  once  the  business  that  had  brough  her  there  was 
transacted;  indeed,  so  great  was  her  haste  that  she  did  not  observe 
that  she  had  left  her  check-book. 

Later  in  the  afternoon,  as  she  sat  on  the  lawn  with  Virginia  and 
her  mother,  Norton  appeared,  striding  briskly  up  the  street.  He 
opened  the  gate,  and  crossed  the  lawn  to  them,  smiling  and  at 
ease. 

"I  didn't  give  Miss  Walsh  her  check-book,"  he  said.  He  addressed 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-EIGHT  333 

himself  to  Virginia.  "I  thought  she  would  find  it  out  and  come  back 
-  but  you  didn't"    -  he  turned  to  Harriett  as  he  spoke  —  "and  so 
I've  brought  it." 

They  were  all  very  grateful  to  him;  that  is,  Virginia  and  Jane  ex- 
pressed their  gratitude.  They  thought  he  had  been  most  kind  and 
had  put  himself  to  a  great  deal  of  trouble  in  a  really  unimportant 
matter.  Harriett  said  nothing,  but  she  suffered  an  accusing  pang 
when  she  recalled  that  she  had  shown  no  interest  in  the  weather. 

Virginia  asked  him  to  be  seated,  for  though  he  had  given  the  book 
into  her  keeping,  he  still  stood  before  them  hat  in  hand. 

Norton  sat  down  with  alacrity. 

He  was  not  under  ordinary  circumstances  a  garrulous  young  fel- 
low, but  on  the  present  occasion  he  talked  hard  and  fast,  as  one  will 
who  is  trying  to  gain  time;  but  the  burden  of  what  he  had  to  say  was 
directed  to  Virginia.  Instinct  warned  him  that  it  would  be  her 
opinion  that  would  have  weight  with  the  others,  that  if  he  was  ever 
to  return  there,  as  he  hoped  he  might  be  permitted  to  do,  it  would  be 
because  she  was  willing  he  should  come;  and  though  Virginia  re- 
garded him  a  little  critically  at  first  perhaps,  there  was  nothing  of 
unkindness  in  her  glance. 

At  last  he  quitted  his  chair;  but  he  was  manifestly  most  reluctant 
to  go;  they  rose,  too;  and  the  four  walked  slowly  across  the  lawn. 
Norton  lagged  more  and  more  as  they  neared  the  gate;  it  involved  a 
positive  effort  for  him  to  tear  himself  away.  In  this  extremity  he 
fell  to  admiring  the  flowers  ;  he  was  particularly  fond  of  flowers, 
it  seemed;  no  doubt  because  he  had  always  lived  in  the  country 
and  was  accustomed  to  having  growing  things  about;  he  even 
ventured  the  hope  that  Mrs.  Landray  would  let  him  come  later 
when  the  roses  were  in  bloom. 

"I  hope  you  may  come  again,  Mr.  Norton,"  responded  Virginia 
kindly. 

"Thank  you  —  if  it  won't  be  an  intrusion,  I'll  be  only  too  glad  to 
come;"  and  he  stole  a  swift  glance  at  Harriett. 

It  may  have  been  the  merest  chance,  but  after  this  in  one  way  and 
another,  Harriett  saw  a  good  deal  of  Norton,  for  his  love  of  the  coun- 
try took  him  past  the  cottage  very  often.  Harriett  knew  this  because 
she  read  much  by  the  window  in  the  small  parlour. 

One  night  as  the  three  sat  in  the  parlour,  the  girl's  quick  ear 
caught  the  sound  of  wheels,  and  a  horse  at  a  rapid  trot  drew  up  at 
the  curb.  She  hid  her  face  in  the  book  she  was  reading,  and  her  heart 


334  THE  LANDRAYS 

beat  rapidly.  There  was  a  brisk  step  on  the  path,  and  a  brisk  knock 
at  the  door,  which  Mrs.  Walsh  opened,  and  there  stood  Norton. 
To  the  girl's  eyes  he  seemed  wonderfully  confident,  wonderfully  sure 
of  himself,  and  later  she  might  have  added,  wonderfully  discreet, 
for  he  devoted  himself  almost  exclusively  to  Virginia. 

He  had,  it  developed,  a  lively  interest  in  local  history;  his  own 
maternal  grandfather  having  been  a  contemporary  in  the  county 
with  General  Landray;  during  the  last  war  with  England  he  had 
served  as  a  captain  in  the  company  of  riflemen  which  the  former  had 
raised;  furthermore  his  father  had  known  Mrs.  Landray 's  husband, 
a  fact  of  which  Mrs.  Landray  herself  was  well  aware.  These  were  all 
points  that  were  calculated  to  make  her  feel  a  certain  liking  for  the 
young  fellow  himself,  which  was  only  intensified  by  his  quite  evident 
respect  for  the  very  name  of  Landray;  nothing  could  have  been  more 
commendable  or  better  calculated  to  show  him  a  person  of  proper 
instincts.  Virginia  recalled  that  as  a  girl  she  had  been  a  guest  at  his 
mother's  wedding;  and  that  General  Harrison  —  to  whom  Mrs. 
Norton  was  distantly  related  —  had  been  present. 

But  while  they  talked  of  these  matters,  his  glance  drifted  on  past 
Virginia  to  the  pretty  silent  girl. 

When  at  last  Norton  took  his  leave,  he  was  hospitably  urged  to 
call  again,  an  invitation  he  professed  himself  as  fully  determined 
to  make  the  most  of. 

He  was  the  first  young  man  who  had  ever  called  there,  though  this 
was  not  because  there  was  any  dearth  of  young  men  in  the  town;  but 
Harriett  was  aware  that  Virginia's  point  of  view  regarding  strangers 
was  conservative  to  say  the  least;  here,  however,  was  a  young  man 
whose  grandfather  had  been  a  prominent  man  in  the  county  when  a 
Landray  had  been  the  prominent  man  of  all  that  region. 

So  Norton  was  welcomed  graciously  whenever  he  chose  to  call. 
Yet  somehow  after  that  first  call  they  avoided  all  mention  of  him; 
even  repeated  visits  did  not  provoke  them  to  discussion;  and  at  this, 
Harriett  wondered  not  a  little. 

At  last  Virginia  astonished  her  small  household  by  announcing 
that  she  had  invited  Norton  to  tea.  They  dined  in  the  middle  of  the 
day,  but  on  this  particular  evening  tea  became  a  very  elaborate 
affair  indeed,  for  it  was  the  first  time  in  twenty  years,  or  since  Stephen 
Landray's  death,  that  Virginia  had  bidden  a  guest  to  her  home.  Even 
Harriett,  who  thought  she  knew  all  the  resources  of  the  household, 
was  astonished  at  the  old  silver  and  glass  and  china  that  was  brought 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-EIGHT  335 

out  for  the  occasion;  nor  had  she  ever  before  seen  Virginia  dressed 
with  such  richness;  and  she  did  not  wonder  that  Norton  whispered 
to  her  as  Virginia  quitted  the  room  on  some  errand: 

"What  a  beautiful  woman  Mrs.  Landray  is,  I  wonder  she  never 
married  again." 

"She  will  never  marry,  she  is  devoted  to  her  husband,"  said 
Harriett. 

"Odd,  isn't  it,  that  one  should  always  be  thinking-  of  that  ?"  he 
said. 

"You  mean  her  devotion  to  his  memory?" 

"No,  not  that —  I  mean  that  one  should  always  wonder  why  a 
pretty  woman  doesn't  marry." 

"But  when  you  have  lost  some  one  you  love." 

"Of  course  —  I  suppose  love  only  seems  so  important  in  our  own 
lives  because  we  know  what  it  has  meant  to  some,  and  so  hope  it 
may  mean  the  same  to  us." 

"Does  it  seem  so  important?"  she  asked,  the  colour  coming  into 
her  cheeks. 

"Doesn't  it?"  he  asked  quietly. 

"Really  I  don't  know,  I  had  never  thought  of  it—  in  that  way." 

"It's  a  part  of  what  we  call  success  in  life;  it  may  be  the  better 
part  _  it  should  be,  Harriett."  His  voice  dwelt  lingeringly  and  car- 
essingly on  her  name. 

She  gave  him  a  frightened,  embarrassed  glance.  It  was  the  first 
time  he  had  ever  called  her  anything  else  than  Miss  Walsh.  She  hoped 
all  at  once  that  her  mother  or  Virginia  would  come  into  the  room; 
but  she  knew  they  were  busy  elsewhere  and  would  not  appear  until 
tea  was  served. 

"Don't  you  think  that  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know.  I  have  never  thought  of  it,"  she  said  faintly. 

"I  wish  you'd  think  of  it  now,"  he  insisted. 

"Why?"  she  faltered. 

"Can't  you  guess?"  he  asked.  "As  something  that  might  affect 
you,  as  something  that  might  affect  —  us."  He  leaned  forward  in 
his  chair  until  his  face  was  very  close  to  hers.  "  Don't  you  understand 
what  I  mean,  Harriett  ?"  he  went  on,  and  his  voice  had  become  sud- 
denly tender.  "I  wonder  if  you  could  think  it  worth  while  to  care  for 
a  fellow  like  me;  don't  you  know  why  I've  been  coming  here  ? 

"To  see  my  Aunt  Virginia,"  she  faltered. 

"Well,  no  —  hardly,  Harriett;  but  I  fear  you  are  not  quite  honest 


336  THE  LANDRAYS 

with  me.  You  know  that  you  have  brought  me  here.  I  wanted  to 
come  long  enough  before  I  did;  but  there  seemed  no  way.  What  are 
you  going  to  tell  me  about  caring  for  a  fellow  like  me;  caring  in  a 
particular  way —  I  mean  ?" 

The  colour  came  and  went  in  the  girl's  face. 

"Of  course  I  can  wait  —  after  all  you  don't  know  me  so  very  well 
yet;  but  I'd  like  to  think  that  my  case  is  not  entirely  hopeless.  Won't 
you  tell  me  what  I  want  to  know,  Harriett,"  —  he  heard  the  swish  of 
heavy  silks  in  the  hall,  it  was  Virginia  returning.  "I'm  going  to  come 
to-morrow  for  your  answer,"  he  said  quickly. 

The  next  day,  after  the  young  man  had  taken  his  leave  of  her, 
Harriett  fled  up-stairs  to  her  mother's  room  with  a  burning  face; 
while  Norton  drove  away  from  the  house  apparently  in  the  best  of 
spirits,  for  he  had  the  unmistakable  air  of  a  man  who  has  just  heard 
something  that  was  unqualifiedly  pleasant  to  hear.  The  girl  hesitated 
nervously. 

"Mr.  Norton  has  just  left,"  she  said. 

"I  thought  I  heard  him,  or  some  one,  drive  up  to  the  gate." 

"It  was  he,"  said  Harriett. 

Her  mother  went  placidly  on  with  her  sewing. 

"He  wants  me  to  tell  you  that  he  wishes  to  come  and  see  you 
very  soon,  mama,"  said  Harriett  at  last,  with  a  little  gasp. 

"Wants  to  see  me,  dear?"  in  mild  surprise. 

"Yes." 

"But  what  about?" 

"About  —  about  me  —  he  wants  to  tell  you  something." 

"He  seems  to  have  told  you  already,"  said  Mrs.  Walsh. 

The  girl  dropped  on  her  knees  before  her  mother,  burying  her  face 
in  her  lap.  There  was  a  little  silence  between  them,  and  then  Mrs. 
Walsh  said. 

"We  must  tell  Virginia.  I  hope,  dear,  that  she  will  approve." 

Harriett  glanced  up  quickly  at  this.  She  was  very  white  of  face. 

"Oh,  you  don't  think  she  won't  —  you  don't  think  that  ?" 

"Then  you  want  her  to  approve?" 

And  Harriett  nodded;  a  single  little  emphatic  inclination  of  the 
head. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-NINE 

BEYOND  the  windows  of  the  Golden  West  Saloon,  a  cold  rain 
deluged  Grant  City.  Gibbs,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  sat  on  the 
edge  of  his  bar  and  dangled  his  fat  legs.  Arling,  disreputable 
and  evil  to  the  eye,  nodded  in  a  warm  corner  by  the  stove.  Gibbs  was 
speaking,  and  he  addressed  himself  to  Stephen  Landray,  who  was 
striding  back  and  forth  across  the  room. 

"  Better  shut  up  the  house,  Steve,  and  let  Mrs.  Bassett  go;  and  you 
and  the  boy  come  over  and  camp  with  my  Julia  and  me.  It  will  give 
Julia  something  to  think  of,"  he  urged  hospitably. 

"Thank  you,  general,  but  I  must  remain  just  where  I  am.  In  the 
spring  I  shall  go  further  West  —  that  is  if  I  can  stay  until  then." 

"I  understand  just  how  you  feel,"  said  Gibbs,  with  ready  sym- 
pathy. "And  wherever  you  go  I  want  you  to  remember  that  I  don't 
consider  myself  permanently  located  here.  I  wish  we  might  get  into 
something  together  again." 

He  tucked  his  thumbs  in  the  armholes  of  his  vest.  He,  at  least,  was 
perennially  hopeful.  If  there  was  a  Gibbs  of  the  Golden  West  Saloon, 
there  was  also  a  General  Gibbs  of  Kansas.  He  might  be  purple-faced, 
and  his  dress  might  be  shabby  and  neglected,  but  dissipation  could 
never  do  for  him  all  that  it  had  done  for  Arling,  his  pride  and  his 
ideals  measurably  sustained  him  in  his  evil  fortune. 

"Nothing's  final,  you  know,"  he  went  on.  "I  reckon  there's  still 
the  last  word  to  be  spoken  on  most  topics;  and  while  I  own  I'm 
winded,  it  ain't  going  to  be  for  long.  I've  had  ups  and  downs  before, 
and  with  half  a  chance  it's  in  me  to  finish  a  winner.  This  place  has 
got  on  my  nerves,  and  it's  not  suiting  my  Julia  either  —  it's  on  her 
nerves,  too.  Well,  I  never  believe  in  evading  the  plain  facts  in  a  case, 
and  I  know  I'm  not  just  acting  in  a  way  to  satisfy  an  ambitious 
woman,  and  my  Julia's  got  her  ambitions.  You  know  what's  wrong, 
I  don't  need  to  go  into  that;  but  I  will  say  this  much  for  myself;  a 
dead  and  alive  existence  is  mighty  depressing  to  an  active  man  such 

337 


338    r  THE  LANDRAYS 

as  I've  always  been,  who's  had  his  nose  in  large  affairs.  I  can't  stay 
here  and  go  to  seed;  what's  to  hinder  us  from  pulling  out  together 
in  the  spring  ?  You  can't  leave  before  that,  and  it  ain't  long  to 
wait." 

"No, I  can't  go  before  spring,"  Landray  reluctantly  agreed, "unless 
I  can  find  some  one  who  will  pay  me  a  lump  sum  down  on  my  con- 
tracts." 

Virginia  had  written  him,  begging  him  to  return  to  Benson,  but 
he  was  determined  never  to  go  back  no  matter  what  happened. 
Later,  Virginia  had  asked  him  to  send  the  child  to  her;  but  neither 
would  he  do  this.  His  little  son  must  remain  with  him  wherever  he 
went.  Without  the  boy  he  felt  his  own  life  would  be  quite  worthless; 
he  felt,  too,  that  Marian  would  have  wished  him  to  decide  as  he  had 
decided. 

The  winter  was  of  unexpected  severity,  but  to  Stephen  this  was 
one  of  its  lesser  hardships.  He  travelled  far  in  all  weathers,  not  spar- 
ing himself.  Night  after  night  he  came  back  cold  and  weary  to  his 
little  son  and  his  comfortless  home.  He  saw  the  huddle  of  houses 
under  a  thousand  different  aspects  —  against  the  red  of  the  winter 
sky;  when  the  swift  twilight  had  fallen;  by  the  cold  moon,  which 
sent  long  black  shadows  streaming  out  across  the  white  untrodden 
snow;  and  he  learned  to  hate  it  all,  as  something  animate  and  per- 
sonal that  had  made  a  wreck  of  his  life. 

There  was  no  welcome  now  for  him  in  the  ragged  rows  of  lights  in 
those  uncurtained  windows  that  overlooked  the  streets  Gibbs  had 
named  in  the  very  prodigality  of  his  patriotism  —  Sherman  Street, 
Farragut  Street,  Porter  Avenue,  Lincoln  Boulevard;  he  only  had  his 
boy,  his  memory  of  Marian,  and  his  terrible  loneliness  for  compan- 
ions. Would  the  spring  never  come,  would  the  winter  never  lose 
its  hold  on  that  frozen  land!  Sometimes  in  sheer  desperation  he  went 
down  to  Gibbs  and  Arling  at  the  Golden  West  Saloon,  where  the  man 
of  science,  when  not  too  drunk,  played  strategic  games  of  check- 
ers with  the  ex-editor;  and  where  the  ex-editor  mixed  hot  whiskies 
for  the  man  of  science;  and  the  frost  bound  loafers  who  still  called 
Grant  City  home,  congregated  sparsely. 

But  at  last  the  snows  melted  from  the  crests  of  the  ridges,  patches 
of  prairie  sod  became  visible  and  spread  down  the  slopes,  as  the  sun 
crept  back  day  by  day  toward  its  summer  solstice. 

One  raw  spring  day  just  at  evening,  Stephen  drove  into  Grant 
City.  It  had  been  raining  and  he  was  wet  to  the  skin,  but  cold  and 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-NINE  339 

chilled  as  he  was,  his  bronzed  cheeks  burnt  with  an  unwonted  colour, 
while  his  dark  eyes  were  brilliant  with  an  unusual  light.  He  drove  not 
to  his  home,  but  straight  to  Gibbs's  saloon.  Hearing  him,  the  general 
came  to  the  door. 

"Hullo,  Steve,  want  me?"  he  said  cheerfully. 

"Can  I  get  you  to  go  to  the  house  with  me,  and  put  out  my  horse  ?" 
asked  Landray.  He  spokely  stiffly  over  the  turned-up  collar  of  his 
coat,  and  he  was  conscious  that  the  words  that  issued  from  his  lips 
had  an  unfamiliar  sound;  he  scarcely  recognized  his  own  voice. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter,  Steve?"  demanded  Gibbs  in  some  sur- 
prise. 

"I'm  not  feeling  just  right,  that's  all." 

The  general  vanished  from  his  open  door,  but  reappeared  almost 
immediately  with  his  hat. 

"You  ain't  feeling  right?"  he  repeated  as  he  climbed  in  beside 
Landray.  "What's  wrong  with  you,  Steve?" 

"I  seem  to  have  taken  cold,"  said  Stephen,  still  stiffly  and  thickly 
over  the  upturned  collar  of  his  coat.  "I  want  to  get  to  bed  as  quick 
as  possible." 

"I  guess  that's  where  you  should  have  been  for  the  past  hour," 
said  the  general,  surveying  him  critically.  "You  ain't  got  the  least 
notion  of  taking  care  of  yourself,  Steve,  you're  doing  yourself  a 
rank  injustice,  exposing  yourself  this  way!" 

When  they  drove  in  at  the  barn  Gibbs  had  to  help  him  from  the 
buggy  or  he  would  have  fallen  to  the  ground;  he  led  him  to  a  shel- 
tered spot,  then  he  drove  the  horse  in  out  of  the  rain  and  tied  it. 

"I'll  come  back  and  take  out;  but  first  I'm  going  to  get  you  to 
bed,  Steve,"  he  said. 

"I'm  afraid  —  I  think  I'm  going  to  be  sick,"  said  Landray,  and 
now  his  teeth  were  chattering. 

"Why,  Steve,  you're  wringing  wet!"  cried  Gibbs,  placing  an  arm 
about  him  to  support  him  as  he  led  him  away  to  the  house. 

"I've  driven  in  from  Hazlets  in  the  rain."  Hazlets  was  a  good  ten 
miles  out  on  the  prairie. 

"You  shouldn't  have  done  it!  You  take  no  sort  of  care  of  your- 
self." 

By  the  time  Gibbs  had  gotten  his  friend  to  his  room,  and  un- 
dressed and  in  bed,  he  was  shaking  with  a  violent  chill.  Gibbs  piled 
the  blankets  on  him,  and  went  down  to  the  kitchen  where  he  told 
Mrs.  Bassett  to  pepare  a  hot  whisky  for  the  sick  man. 


340  THE  LANDRAYS 

"You  give  it  to  him,  and  I'll  be  back  with  Arling  in  a  minute  or 
so,"  he  said,  and  ran  to  the  saloon,  where  he  arrived  panting  and  out 
of  breath. 

The  doctor  had  received  his  monthly  remittance  the  day  before, 
and  the  results  had  been  disastrous;  but  Gibbs  was  equal  to  the 
emergency.  He  dragged  him  unceremoniously  enough  from  the  chair 
he  was  sleeping  in  back  of  the  stove,  and  laid  him  flat  on  the  floor; 
then  he  brought  a  bucket  of  water  from  the  well  in  the  yard,  and 
splashed  it  in  his  face.  This  produced  immediate  results.  The  doctor 
opened  his  eyes,  groaned,  and  sat  up. 

"What  the  hell  you  doing  to  me,  Gibbs?"  he  sputtered  angrily, 
for  the  deluge  continued. 

"I'm  trying  to  sober  you,  Doc,  Landray's  sick." 

"Want  to  drown  me?  I  tell  you  I'm  sober  enough.  What's  the 
matter  of  Landray  ?" 

"He's  sick  —  is  having  sort  of  a  chill." 

"He  don't  take  no  care  of  himself,  never  seen  such  imprudence," 
said  Arling  crossly. 

"Can  you  walk?"  demanded  Gibbs. 

"Yes,"  and  the  doctor  scrambled  to  his  feet.  "Course  I  can 
walk!" 

"Come  along  then,"  cried  Gibbs,  seizing  Arling's  hat  and  thrust- 
ing it  into  his  hands. 

"Stop  a  minute,  where's  Landray  now?"  asked  Arling,  rea- 
sonably sober. 

"Home  and  in  bed.  I  told  Mrs.  Bassett  to  give  him  hot  whisky." 

"Nothing  better  than  that!"  said  Arling. 

As  soon  as  he  had  left  the  doctor  in  charge  of  his  friend,  Gibbs 
hurried  off  across  the  back  lots.  He  was  going  for  his  Julia. 

"This  is  a  hell  of  a  place!"  he  moaned  miserably,  as  he  stumbled 
along  through  the  darkness.  "I  wish  I'd  never  got  him  to  come  here; 
but  I  couldn't  foresee  how  things  would  pan  out!" 

His  was  a  simple  emotional  nature,  but  he  was  capable  of  no  little 
depth  of  feeling,  and  he  loved  Landray  as  his  own  son.  He  wanted  him 
to  live,  he  wanted  to  vindicate  to  him  his  own  capacity  for  a  substan- 
tial success.  It  hurt  him  that  he  should  think,  as  he  sometimes  fancied 
he  did  think,  that  he  was  impractical  and  erratic;  he  wanted  him  to 
know  just  the  sort  of  man  General  Nathan  Gibbs  really  was;  for 
externals  bore  hard  upon  his  character,  and  he  was  aware  without 
his  Julia  telling  him  of  it,  that  Gibbs  of  the  Golden  West  Saloon  was 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-NINE  341 

but  a  poor  shadow  of  the  epauletted  soldier  who  seven  years  before 
had  turned  his  florid  face  and  expanded  chest  toward  the  new  West. 
Those  had  been  his  great  days,  but  in  some  form  they  must  return; 
he  never  doubted  this. 

"What  a  shabby  guzzling  hound  I've  become!"  he  told  himself  in 
his  abasement  and  disgust.  "I  wish  he  could  think  well  of  me,  for 
he's  the  only  gentleman  left  in  Grant  City." 

He  soon  returned  with  his  Julia,  who,  after  bestowing  certain  lit- 
tle attentions  on  the  sick  man,  rejoined  her  husband  in  the  kitchen, 
where  she  viewed  certain  manifestations  of  Mrs.  Bassett's  house- 
keeping with  compressed  lips  and  elevated  eyebrows.  Then  she  pro- 
ceeded to  clean  up,  and  in  Mrs.  Bassett's  absence  from  the  room, 
remarked  to  the  general: 

"Seems  as  if  nothing  short  of  a  death  in  this  family  will  ever  get 
this  house  red  up!  I  wonder  what  that  woman  finds  to  slouch  over 
all  day  long!" 

Stephen  was  delirious  for  the  greater  part  of  the  night,  a  fever  fol- 
lowing quick  upon  the  chill;  but  toward  morning  Arling  came 
from  the  room  and  joining  Gibbs,  told  him  that  Landray's  condition 
was  much  less  serious  than  it  had  been. 

"Well,  if  that's  so,"  said  Gibbs,  quitting  his  chair,  "I  guess 
I'll  slip  up  and  see  him,  and  then  go  home  and  get  an  hour  or  two  of 
sleep,  and  then  go  down  and  open  up  the  saloon.  If  you  want  any- 
thing, send  for  me.  Julia  will  be  over  right  after  breakfast." 

"Mighty  capable  lady!"  remarked  the  doctor. 

Gibbs  found  Landray  very  white  and  weak,  but  sitting  up  in 
bed. 

"Well,  how  goes  it,  Steve  ?"  he  asked  cheerfully. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Landray  wearily.  "It's  my  head." 

"Well,  you  keep  still  for  a  few  days,  and  your  head  will  be  all 
right,"  said  Gibbs,  drawing  up  a  chair  to  his  bedside  and  settling 
his  untidy  person  in  it. 

"I  don't  know  what  I'd  do  without  you  and  Mrs.  Gibbs,"  said 
Stephen  gratefully,  as  he  sank  back  on  his  pillows. 

"As  soon  as  you  can,  you  must  get  out  of  this,  Steve,"  said  Gibbs. 
"Why  can't  you  write  to  your  aunt,  or  Jake  Benson  ?  He  owes  it  to 
you  to  do  something;  it's  not  much  to  ask." 

But  Stephen  shook  his  head. 

"Oh,  come  now,  that's  merely  your  pride.  Just  make  up  your 
mind  to  let  things  drop  here;  you  shouldn't  risk  your  health  racing 


34*  THE  LANDRAYS 

about  the  country;  at  best  you'll  only  clear  up  a  few   hundreds, 
even  your  aunt  could  do  that  much  for  you  and  not  feel  it." 

"You  don't  understand,  Gibbs;  I  cannot  ask  anything  of  her;  her 
means  are  small  enough,  and  my  obligations  to  her  are  already  greater 
than  I  can  ever  hope  to  discharge." 

"Well,  of  course,  you  know  best;  but  I  want  to  see  you  get  away 
from  here,  Steve,  you  are  using  yourself  up  to  no  purpose.  It's  a 
dog's  life;  I  feel  it,  and  things  don't  grind  into  me  the  way  they  do 
into  you." 

Later  in  the  day  the  fever  which  had  left  him  returned;  and  a  feel- 
ing of  despair  laid  hold  of  Stephen.  Suppose  he  did  not  get  well  — 
suppose  he  should  die!  It  would  be  so  much  more  easy  to  die  than  to 
live;  why  should  he  wish  to  pass  again  beyond  the  four  white  walls 
of  that  room!  Then  he  thought  of  his  little  son,  and  begged  Gibbs 
who  was  watching  at  his  side  to  find  him  pen  and  paper.  These  were 
brought  him,  the  general  propped  him  up  in  bed  with  pillows,  and 
the  sick  man  took  the  pen  with  feeble  fingers.  After  all,  in  his  pov- 
erty and  sickness,  his  misery  of  body  and  spirit,  in  what  he  now  be- 
lieved was  the  final  dire  extremity,  he  turned  to  Virginia.  She  had 
been  his  first  friend  and  she  was  his  last.  With  infinite  difficulty,  for 
his  eyes  seemed  ready  to  leap  from  their  sockets,  and  the  pen  would 
slip  from  his  weak  fingers,  he  wrote  two  letters.  The  first  was  to  Vir- 
ginia; the  other  to  Benson.  This  labour,  for  it  was  a  real  labour, 
he  finished  at  intervals  during  the  afternoon.  The  result  was  two 
rambling  incoherent  letters  which  bore  entirely  upon  his  son's  future; 
of  himself  he  said  nothing.  What  was  in  these  letters  Gibbs  did  not 
know  then;  but  when  they  were  written,  he  said: 

"Now  I  suppose  you  want  me  to  post  'em  for  you,  Steve  ?" 

Landray  shook  his  head. 

"No,  we'll  wait  until  to-morrow." 

"But  why  wait  ?"  urged  Gibbs  impatiently.  "You'll  be  changing 
your  mind  the  first  thing  I  know,  Steve." 

"Perhaps  I  shall  —  I  may  not  send  them  at  all,"  and  he  lay  back 
wearily  among  his  pillows.  "I  don't  want  to  alarm  my  aunt  need- 
lessly," he  added. 

"The  sooner  she  knows  of  the  situation  here  the  better  satisfied  I 
shall  be,"  said  Gibbs. 

"I  believe  you  want  to  see  the  last  of  me,  general,"  said  Landray, 
smiling  whimsically  at  his  friend. 

"No,  I   don't,  Steve,  but  I  do  want  to  see  you  get  out  of  this.  I 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-NINE  343 

figure  on  joining  you  wherever  you  go  ;  you  need  me;  you're  too 
much  of  a  gentleman  to  get  money  easy,  and  you  need  me." 

"But  how  about  you,  general  ?" 

"Being  a  gentleman  ?"  a  wide  grin  overspread  the  general's  bat- 
tered face.  "Well,  I  ain't  any  illusions  left  on  that  score.  I  about 
manage  to  hit  the  prevailing  level.  Put  me  down  as  good  company; 
I'll  keep  up  my  end  anywhere.  I'm  versatile;  but  I  reckon  you  know 
the  best  and  the  worst  of  me,  Steve  —  it's  the  common  human  aver- 
age. That's  why  you  need  me;  you're  just  a  peg  above  the  average, 
so  was  your  father  and  uncle;  and  everybody  loved  'em  for  it;  but  it 
didn't  stand  in  the  way  of  their  taking  advantage  of  'em.  Now  no- 
body's ever  got  into  me  very  deep;  I've  always  been  able  to  take 
handsome  care  of  my  own  skin;  and  when  Providence  settles  with 
the  meek  in  spirit,  the  name  of  Gibbs  won't  be  mentioned;  there'll 
be  nothing  coming  to  me  that  I  ain't  got!" 

Stephen  passed  a  restless  night,  while  Gibbs,  shabby  and  dissi- 
pated, watched  tenderly  at  his  side;  but  in  the  morning  he  felt  so 
much  better  that  in  spite  of  Gibbs's  protests  he  insisted  upon  dress- 
ing, and  went  down-stairs.  The  following  day  he  was  able  to  leave 
the  house,  but  he  paid  dearly  for  his  imprudence.  The  fever  returned 
and  he  went  back  to  bed,  he  was  again  delirious,  and  the  second  day 
he  passed  in  a  semi-conscious  state  from  which  he  only  aroused  at  long 
intervals. 

Gibbs  and  Mrs.  Gibbs  and  Arling  watched  him  constantly.  The 
doors  of  the  Golden  West  Saloon  were  closed  and  locked,  and  the 
thirsty  of  Grant  City  going  there,  tried  the  door  in  vain,  looked  in  at 
the  window,  and  went  sadly  away. 

"He  ain't  showing  any  nerve,  nor  any  wish  to  live!"  wailed  Gibbs. 
"He's  sinking  because  he  ain't  trying  to  keep  up!  Unless  he  helps 
himself  we  can't  do  anything  for  him!" 

And  it  was  as  Gibbs  said.  Stephen  now  lacked  both  the  inclination 
and  the  power  tc  help  himself;  he  faced  the  thought  of  death  with  in- 
difference. This  continued  for  a  week. 

It  was  Gibbs  who  was  with  him  when,  the  end  came.  All  at  once 
Stephen  roused  himself  from  his  lethargy  and  sat  erect  in  his  bed. 

"Gibbs!"  he  called  hoarsely. 

"What  is  it,  Steve  — I'm  here;  don't  you  see  me?  asked  the 
general  from  his  seat  at  his  side,  and  he  rested  a  shaking  hand  on 
the  younger  man's  arm.  M 

"Take  him  to  his  aunt,"  muttered  Landray,     to  his  aunt,  do 


344  THE  LANDRAYS 

you  understand  ?  I  mean  the  boy  —  take  him  to  his  aunt,  take  him 
there  first." 

"Yes,  yes,  Steve,  don't  worry;  I'll  do  just  as  you  say,"  cried 
Gibbs  in  a  choking  voice. 

"Do  you  hear  me  —  he's  to  go  back  to  Ohio,"  gasped  the  dying 
man  with  painful  effort.  "She's  all  he  has  left.  You'll  take  him  there 
—  as  soon  as  you  can;"  and  with  that  Landray  fell  back  on  his  bed 
and  spoke  no  more* 


CHAPTER  FORTY 

GIBBS  settled  Stephen's  affairs,  and  there  was  left  in  his  hands 
a  small  sum  of  money,  which,  by  dint  of  borrowing,  he  in- 
creased to  a  figure  that  enabled  him  to  take  the  boy  to  Ben- 
son. The  occasion  was  like  a  tonic  to  him,  the  buoyancy  of  a  daunt- 
less spirit  spoke  in  his  very  air  and  manner;  he  forgot  Grant  City, 
the  Golden  West  Saloon,  his  shabbiness;  and  his  travelling  compan- 
ions learned  early  who  he  was,  and  to  most  ears,  General  Gibbs  of 
Kansas,  had  a  large  sound.  He  reached  Benson  just  at  nightfall.  The 
place  had  an  unfamiliar  aspect.  A  village  had  become  a  town,  the 
town  almost  a  city.  He  had  expected  changes,  but  he  would  have 
said  that  he  could  have  found  his  way  to  what  he  had  known  years 
before  as  the  Leonard  farm  in  spite  of  any  changes;  yet  again  and 
again  he  was  forced  to  pause  and  ask  his  way.  Even  when  he  reached 
the  house  itself  he  would  not  have  known  it.  He  paused  at  the  gate  and 
glanced  about.  Below  him  was  the  level  valley  of  the  Little  Wolf 
River.  It  was  dotted  with  rows  of  lights;  they  diverged  or  ran  in 
parallel  lines  and  marked  streets,  streets  in  what  in  his  day  had  been 
the  best  corn-land  in  all  the  county. 

Gibbs  entered  the  yard  and  followed  up  the  path  to  the  front  door. 
Virginia,  herself,  answered  his  summons,  and  seeing  her  there  in  the 
door,  in  the  light  that  streamed  out  and  about  her,  he  owned  that 
the  years  had  been  kind  to  her. 

What  Virginia  saw,  was  a  red-faced  man  who  smelt  strongly  of 
whisky  and  stale  tobacco;  a  man  with  his  hat  off,  which  exposed  a 
shiny  bald  head,  and  a  thin  fringe  of  grey  hair,  bleary  eyes,  and  bul- 
bulous  nose;  but  who  in  spite  of  his  dissipated  look  and  his  shabbi- 
ness, the  shabbiness  of  well-worn  clothes  and  soiled  linen  that  had 
been  slept  and  travelled  in,  still  maintained  a  jaunty  and  a  gallant 
air  even.  She  saw  further  that  he  was  holding  by  the  hand  a  small 
boy,  a  very  small  boy  indeed,  who  looked  absurdly  little  for 
short  trousers  and  roundabouts,  and  a-«  if  he  had  been  suddenly 

145 


346  THE  LANDRAYS 

advanced  from  skirts  and  had  not  yet  grown  accustomed  to  the 
change. 

"Mrs.  Landray,"  Gibbs  spoke  in  a  husky  throaty  voice,  "I  see 
you  don't  recall  me;  but  it  ain't  to  be  wondered  at.  Gibbs  is  my 
name,  General  Gibbs  of  Kansas;"  he  threw  out  his  chest.  "I  am 
delighted  to  see  you  again  after  all  these  years;  it's  an  honour,  a 
pleasure,"  he  placed  his  hand  on  his  heart,  and  bowed  low  with  old- 
fashioned  courtesy.  The  sight  of  her  had  taken  him  back  full  twenty 
years.  "An  honour,  a  pleasure,"  he  repeated. 

The  look  of  surprise  on  Virginia's  face  vanished.  She  understood. 
It  was  Gibbs  and  Stephen's  baby  —  this  other  Stephen  Mason  Lan- 
dray whom  she  had  never  seen,  but  who  stood  there  in  the  light, 
blinking  at  her  sleepily  with  Landray  eyes;  the  small  upturned  face 
had  the  Landray  features.  Stooping  quickly  she  raised  the  child  in 
her  arms.  The  general  followed  her  into  the  house. 

"I  had  written  you,  general,  for  in  your  letter  to  me  you  made 
no  mention  of  the  child,"  she  said,  and  now  she  gave  him  her  hand. 

"My  oversight,  my  neglect,"  said  Gibbs  blandly.  "Fact  is,  I 
wasn't  thinking  much  about  him  just  then  —  it  was  poor  Steve." 
His  voice  broke,  and  she  saw  his  eyes  glisten  and  fill. 

"But  he  had  you  to  the  last,"  she  said  gently,  gratefully.  "You 
were  with  him  during  all  his  sickness.'' 

"I  did  what  I  could  for  him,  and  so  did  my  Julia.  Everybody 
loved  him,  he  was  a  real  Landray  in  that." 

Virginia  had  motioned  him  to  a  chair;  then  she  seated  herself  with 
the  child  still  in  her  arms. 

"I  feel  better  now  he  is  with  you,"  said  Gibbs  beaming  on  them 
benevolently. 

"He's  very  like  —  very  like  his  father,  don't  you  think  ?"  said  Vir- 
ginia, her  face  pressed  against  the  child's  soft  cheek. 

"I  reckon  he's  good  and  tired."  Gibbs  rose  from  his  chair.  "I'll 
come  in  the  morning  to  see  how  he  gets  on." 

"But  won't  you  stay?  I'm  alone  just  now;  Mrs.  Walsh  who 
makes  her  home  with  me,  it  at  her  daughter's,  Mrs.  Norton's;  but 
I'm  expecting  her  back  any  minute." 

"I  want  to  find  Jake  Benson,"  said  Gibbs  "I  reckon  I'll  pass  the 
night  with  him.  Good-night,  son;"  he  gave  the  boy  his  fat  forefinger 
Then  from  his  pocket  he  took  the  letter  which  Stephen  had  written 
Virginia,  so  largely  at  his  instigation.  "It's  from  Steve,"  he  said 
simply,  as  he  handed  it  to  her. 


CHAPTER  FORTY  347 

"I've  said  nothing  of  my  gratitude  to  you  for  all  your  kindness;" 
and  Virginia  drew  the  child  closer  to  her  breast. 

"It  was  little  enough  I  was  able  to  do,  Mrs.  Landray.  God  knows 
I  wanted  Steve  to  live,  but  it  wasn't  to  be."  He  mopped  his  face 
with  his  handkerchief.  "It  wasn't  to  be,"  he  repeated  sadly,  then  he 
bade  her  an  abrupt  good-night  and  hurried  from  the  house. 

As  the  general  had  intimated,  he  proposed  being  entertained  by 
Benson.  The  trip  East  had  involved  such  nice  calculation  that  this 
would  be  necessary  unless  he  expected  to  practice  extraordinary  self-  j 
denial  on  the  way  home;  and  freed  of  the  care  of  the  child  he  proposed 
permitting  himself  a  certain  latitude  on  the  return  journey. 

The  lawyer  no  longer  lived  in  the  house  on  the  square;  he  had 
moved  to  a  more  remote  part  of  the  town  where  he  had  built  a  home 
which  stood  in  the  midst  of  extensive  grounds.  It  was  altogether  the 
most  costly  and  imposing  place  in  Benson. 

Gibbs  found  his  way  thither.  From  the  servant  who  answered  his 
ring,  he  learned  that  his  friend  was  not  in,  but  was  expected  home 
shortly. 

"Then  I'll  wait  for  him  here,"  said  Gibbs. 

This  the  servant  seemed  reluctant  to  allow,  but  Gibbs  pushed  reso- 
lutely past  him. 

"Tell  Jake  —  "  he  corrected  himself  artfully.  "Tell  Mr.  Benson 
that  it's  General  Gibbs  of  Kansas;"  and  he  was  shown  into  the 
library ;  he  had  hardly  seated  himself  when  the  street  door  opened 
again,  and  a  moment  later  Benson  hurried  into  the  room. 

"Why,  Gibbs,  what  has  brought  you  back  ?"  he  cried. 

The  general  took  him  warmly  by  the  hand. 

"Jake,  how  are  you!"  he  said.  "I've  fetched  Stephen's  boy 
home  to  Mrs.  Landray,"  he  added,  answering  Benson's  question. 

"That  was  very  sad  about  Landray,"  observed  the  lawyer  gravely. 

"I  don't  know  when  I  felt  a  death  as  I  felt  his,"  rejoined  Gibbs 
huskily,  and  his  under  lip  quivered. 

There  was  a  brief  silence  in  which  the  lawyer  gave  himself  up  to  a 
critical  scrutiny  of  his  guest. 

"What  are  you  doing,  Gibbs  ?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

"I  ?  Oh  I'm  trying  to  rub  the  creases  out  of  a  cocked  hat,"  an- 
swered the  general  lightly.  "I  am  sort  of  resting  on  my  laurels,  Jake, 
waiting  for  the  tide  to  turn." 

"It's  good  to  have  laurels  to  rest  on,"  said  Benson.  Come  into 
the  dining-room  and  we  will  have  something  to  eat  and  drink. 


348  THE  LANDRAYS 

Gibbs  quitted  his  chair  with  alacrity. 

"You  were  speaking  of  Landray  a  moment  ago,"  said  Benson 
when  they  had  seated  themselves.  "He  was  not  very  successful,  was 
he?" 

"At  first  he  was,  he  made  a  good  deal  of  money;  and  I  reckon  if 
he'd  lived  he'd  soon  been  on  his  feet  again;  but  we  struck  a  wave  of 
temporary  depression;  you  know  how  those  things  go,"  said  Gibbs 
stoutly.  He  was  not  blind,  but  it  was  not  in  his  nature  to  admit  an 
unqualified  defeat;  beside  Benson  was  the  last  man  to  whom  he 
would  have  told  the  truth  where  it  touched  Landray 's  pathetic 
struggle. 

"Too  bad!"  and  again  Benson's  shrewd  glance  comprehended 
his  guest.  His  lips  curled  cynically;  in  that  moment  he  was  quite 
without  pity  for  Gibbs,  who  looked  the  shabby  adventurer  all  too 
plainly;  whose  flame-coloured  face  and  shaking  uncertain  hands  told 
their  own  story.  How  could  Landray  have  been  deceived  by  Gibbs! 
He  felt  only  intolerance  and  contempt  for  what  he  conceived  to  have 
been  Stephen's  utter  lack  of  judgment.  It  was  his  determined  wrong- 
headedness  that  had  wrecked  his  life;  no  one  could  have  saved  him. 

"It's  not  necessary  for  me  to  ask  if  Landray  left  anything.  I 
suppose  his  little  son  is  quite  unprovided  for?" 

In  spite  of  himself,  something  of  his  feeling  had  crept  into  the  law- 
yer's tone.  This  was  not  lost  on  Gibbs,  and  resentment  showed  in 
his  battered  face,  but  he  contented  himself  with  merely  saying: 

"If  he'd  lived  he'd  won  out,  but  he  died  at  the  wrong  moment. 
No,  he  didn't  leave  anything." 

"Humph!"  said  the  lawyer,  and  fell  silent. 

The  general  poured  himself  a  drink  of  whisky,  emptied  his  glass, 
and  poured  himself  another;  the  immediate  effect  of  this  was  that  he 
was  somewhat  mollified.  He  looked  about  him  with  undisguised 
approval  in  his  eyes. 

"You  have  housed  yourself  rather  handsomely,  Jake;  I  wonder 
what  the  old  man  would  say  if  he  could  come  back  and  see  how  the 
money  he  made  out  of  pelts  and  whisky  had  been  spent;  appear- 
ances never  bothered  him,"  he  said,  disrespectfully.  "And  you  have 
changed,  Jake;  you've  sort  of  taken  on  additions,  too.  I'd  never  have 
thought  you  had  a  taste  for  luxury;  but  here  I  find  you  living  like  a 
prince." 

"How  have  I  changed?"  asked  Benson  curiously. 

"Well,  I  should  say  you  were  less  frank  for  one  thing,  Jake;  and 


CHAPTER  FORTY  349 

you  have  accumulated  dignity  along  with  your  dollars;  but  it's  a 
combination  that's  hard  to  beat;  I  wonder  you  ain't  ever  married." 

There  was  another  silence,  in  which  Gibbs  applied  himself  to  his 
glass. 

In  a  quiet  easy  going  way,  without  haste  and  with  an  economy  of 
effort  that  seemed  to  argue  entire  indifference  to  worldly  success, 
Benson  had  yet  thriven  exceedingly  in  his  various  enterprises.  He 
stood  at  the  head  of  his  profession;  men  much  older  than  himself, 
and  of  much  wider  actual  experience,  yielded  him  precedence 
Hardly  any  venture  was  embarked  upon  in  the  town  but  his  advice 
or  help  was  asked;  for  it  was  known  that  he  could  always  command 
money.  In  part  this  had  fallen  to  his  character  and  ability,  in  part  it 
was  because  of  the  thousands  Southerland  had  paid  him  for  that 
wild  land  in  Belmont  County.  It  was  because  of  the  good  use  he  had 
made  of  those  thousands,  that  people  were  now  able  to  speak  of  him 
as  a  millionaire.  His  riches  seemed  to  have  detached  him  from  those 
traditional  intimacies  that  belong  to  life  in  a  small  town;  only  a  very 
few  of  the  older  men  in  the  place  ventured  to  call  him  Jake;  this 
while  it  amused  him,  yet  had  a  certain  subtle  influence  on  his  char- 
acter. He  was  fundamentally  much  too  frank  and  simple  fcr  any 
external  show;  but  he  was  also  too  sensible  to  despise  the  solid  ad- 
vantages that  flowed  to  him  from  this  attitude  of  his  townsmen,  and 
in  a  way  he  was  remotely  flattered  by  it.  It  was  only  Virginia  whose 
manner  conceded  nothing,  and  who  paid  no  deference  to  his  worldly 
success  and  growing  position  as  the  great  man  of  the  town.  It  was 
nothing  to  her  that  he  was  adding  house  to  house  and  farm  to  farm; 
these  things  did  not  impress  her;  and  he  saw  that  to  her  at  least,  his 
position  had  remained  exactly  what  it  had  been  in  her  husband's 
lifetime.  If  anything,  her  manner  toward  him  had  grown  more  for- 
mal, more  as  if  she  were  defining  his  place  for  him,  since  he  was  in 
danger  of  forgetting  it. 

There  were  times,  days  of  depression  and  suffering,  when  his  loath- 
ing of  himself  was  the  more  bitter  because  of  the  very  respect  men  so 
readily  gave  him.  What  if  they  could  know,  what  if  he  were  sud- 
denly and  relentlessly  held  up  for  the  scorn  and  contempt  he  merited, 
his  hypocrisy  made  known!  The  hypocrisy  of  his  charities,  the 
hypocrisy  of  every  decent  untterance  that  fell  from  his  lips,  placed 
side  by  side  with  the  black  record  of  his  hidden  act.  Gibbs  had 
spoken  of  a  change;  and  the  change  was  there  deeper  than  he  knew; 
a  rotten  spot  in  his  conscience  that  was  spreading  —  spreading. 


350  THE  LANDRAYS 

A  moment  before  and  he  had  hardly  been  able  to  hide  his  contempt 
for  Gibbs;  now  he  was  ready  to  abase  himself  before  him;  for  at  his 
worst,  Gibbs  was  a  blatant  easy-going  scamp  with  a  kindly  generous 
streak  in  him  that  had  probably  held  him  back  from  much  ras- 
cality. 

"I  expect  you  were  a  good  friend  to  Landray,  Gibbs;  and  doubt- 
less helped  him  through  the  worst  of  his  troubles,"  he  was  moved  to 
say. 

"Who  told  you  that,  Jake  ?"  asked  the  general  quickly. 

"  I  don't  have  to  be  told  it,  I  know  you,"  said  Benson. 

"I  don't  deserve  any  praise;  we  were  poor  together  at  the  last,  and 
as  long  as  you  ain't  got  anything  you  can  afford  to  be  generous." 
He  took  from  his  pocket  a  letter  and  handed  it  to  Benson. 

The  envelope  was  unsealed  and  there  was  no  superscription.  Ben- 
son drew  forth  the  letter  it  contained  and  read  it.  Gibbs  watched  him 
narrowly  the  while.  But  the  lawyer's  face  was  expressionless,  and 
told  nothing  of  what  was  passing  in  his  mind.  Having  read  the  letter, 
Benson  returned  it  to  its  envelope,  then  he  caught  Gibbs's  eye.  It 
held  a  question. 

"You  know  what  Landray  has  written  here  ?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  Steve  had  me  read  it  and  the  other  letter  he  mentions,  which 
I  gave  Mrs.  Landray." 

"What  was  in  the  letter  you  gave  her  ?"  asked  Benson. 

"He  wanted  her  to  have  the  boy,  if  you  would  do  nothing  for  him. 
You  see  he  was  sure  of  her,  Jake." 

"Yes,  he  could  be  sure  of  her;  one  can  always  be  sure  of  her" 
said  Benson  enigmatically. 

Gibbs  shot  him  a  quick  glance. 

"I  reckon  so,"  he  said  quietly. 

"But  not  of  me,"  and  Benson  laughed  a  little  bitterly. 

"Well,  I  gathered,  not  so  much  from  what  he  said  as  from  what 
he  didn't  say,  that  you  and  he  weren't  friends;"  and  with  a  stubby 
forefinger  Gibbs  made  a  pattern  on  the  polished  table  with  some 
whisky  and  water  he  had  inadvertently  spilled  from  his  glass.  "I 
find  it's  a  good  thing  to  let  death  square  all  grudges,"  he  ventured. 
"  I  think  at  heart  he  counted  on  you,  Jake,  because  of  Marian." 

"I  don't  consider  that  anyone  has  any  claim  of  that  sort  on  me," 
said  Benson  sharply.  "Few  men  stand  more  alone  than  I  do;  and 
when  Marian  died  it  was  about  the  last  of  the  connection  —  except 
your  wife,  Gibbs." 


CHAPTER  FORTY  35l 

"And  the  boy,"  interjected  Gibbs  hastily.  "You're  forgetting  him, 
Jake." 

"And  the  boy,"  repeated  Benson  "But  his  is  a  rather  remote 
claim;  and  I  all  but  ruined  myself  on  account  of  Marian's  father,  I 
suppose  Landray  told  you  that." 

Gibbs  nodded  slightly.  The  lawyer  went  on. 

"Julia  is  nearer,  but  you  don't  seem  to  be  looking  to  me  because  of 
that,  Gibbs." 

The  general's  red  face  grew  very  red  indeed  at  this. 

"I'm  not  asking  anything  for  myself,  Jake  Benson,  or  for  my 
Julia.  I've  stood  on  my  own  feet  too  long  to  want  to  go  poking  them 
into  any  one's  else  shoes,  when  I  do  you  can  tramp  on  my  toes." 

"Oh,  come,  Gibbs!" 

'Well,  don't  take  up  with  the  idea  that  I'm  here  to  ask  favours 
for  myself,  for  I  ain't!  I've  fetched  you  a  relative,"  said  Gibbs. 

The  lawyer  regarded  him  curiously.  Gibbs  disinterestedness  was 
something  he  found  exceedingly  hard  to  credit. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do  about  the  boy,"  he  said  at  length. 
"But  he  will  not  suffer  in  the  present;  Mrs.  Landray  will  care -for 
him.  He  could  not  be  in  better  hands." 

"It  was  the  future  Steve  was  thinking  about  when  he  wrote  to  you, 
Jake;  and  it  will  be  pretty  hard  on  Mrs.  Landray  if  you  leave  the 
child  with  her  until  she  becomes  attached  to  him,  and  then  take  him 
away." 

"Mrs.  Landray's  attachments  are  all  traditional.  She  is  probably 
quite  as  fond  of  him  this  very  minute  as  she  will  be  ten  years  hence." 

"I'd  almost  say  you  were  tricky,  Jake;  one  gets  damn  little  satis- 
faction out  of  you,"  said  Gibbs.  He  made  one  or  two  futile  efforts 
after  this  to  bring  the  lawyer  back  to  the  matter  he  had  most  at  heart, 
but  Benson  baffled  him,  and  in  the  end  Gibbs  retired  to  his  room 
considerately  helped  thither  by  his  host,  and  quite  nonplussed  by  the 
other's  perverseness. 

Gibbs  lingered  in  Benson  two  days  as  the  lawyer's  guest,  and  on 
the  morning  of  the  third  started  home  to  his  Julia  and  the  Golden 
West  Saloon.  He  was  satisfied  that  he  had  acted  rather  handsomely 
in  a  crisis;  and  he  was  cheered  and  sustained  by  the  conviction  that 
both  Benson  and  Virginia  appeared  fully  sensible  of  this. 

"She's  the  reason  Jake  never  married;  well,  in  spite  of  his  luck  he's 
wanted  one  thing  he  couldn't  have;"  and  the  thought  gave  him  no 
little  satisfaction,  his  feeling  toward  Benson  being  then  rather  one  of 


352  THE  LANDRAYS 

censure.  "He  owed  it  to  me  to  say  what  he'd  do  for  Steve's  boy;  it 
was  distinctly  my  right  to  know,  I  wish  I'd  told  him  that." 

It  might  have  been  an  added  comfort  to  Gibbs  had  he  known  that 
his  departure  left  the  lawyer  rather  depressed,  and  wondering  mood- 
ily why  he  should  have  the  feeling  he  knew  he  had  for  Stephen  and 
Stephen's  boy.  It  seemed  a  long  way  back  to  the  directness  of  those 
motives  that  had  once  influenced  him  for  good.  He  rancorously  lived 
over  'the  past  and  the  days  slipped  forward  while  he  nursed  his 
grudge.  He  did  not  see  Virginia,  and  he  made  no  effort  to  see  the 
child. 

Virginia's  feeling  of  hurt  and  injury  grew  as  the  months  passed 
and  he  made  no  sign;  then  quite  unexpectedly  he  surprised  her  by 
calling. 

"I  suppose  you  have  counted  me  rather  remiss  in  the  matter  of 
Stephen's  boy,  Virginia,"  he  began  smoothly. 

"I  don't  know  why  you  should  think  that.  Perhaps  there  was  no 
reason  why  you  should  feel  any  interest  in  him,"  answered  Virginia. 

"You  don't  think  that,  Virginia.  You  know  that  Stephen  wrote 
me  just  before  his  death  ?  I  understood  Gibbs  to  say  that  he  had 
told  you  of  this  letter  —  of  its  purport." 

"Yes,"  but  she  glanced  at  him  in  some  alarm. 

"Stephen  wished  me  to  assume  the  burden  of  the  boy's  education. 
He  knew  that  I  could  do  more  for  him  in  a  worldly  way  than  you, 
Virginia,  and  he  had  tasted  the  bitterness  of  a  struggle  to  make  a 
place  for  himself.  To  write  me,  to  feel  that  he  must  turn  to  me  in 
his  extremity,  must  have  been  a  blow  to  his  pride.  In  his  letter  the 
awkwardness  of  his  constraint  shows  itself  The  feeling  he  had  for 
me  remained  with  him  to  the  end." 

She  knew  what  he  meant,  but  did  not  answer  him.  He  went  on. 

"Years  ago,  Virginia,  when  Stark  took  the  Landray  farm,  I  made 
up  my  mind  that  some  day  you  should  return  there.  I  have  had  to 
wait,  but  recently  the  farm  was  sold  to  me.  It's  a  whim  —  a  fancy,  if 
you  will  —  but  I  want  you  to  go  there  and  live." 

Virginia  shook  her  head. 

"I  shall  never  go  there,"  she  said. 

"Wait!"  he  interposed  quickly.  "I  want  to  sell  you  the  place. 
Remember  it  was  your  home  all  those  years;  you  went  there  when 
you  first  came  to  Benson." 

"I  know  —  I  remember,"  said  Virginia  softly,  and  the  shadow 
deepened  in  her  eyes. 


CHAPTER  FORTY  353 

"You  will  reconsider  ?  You  will  take  the  place  off  my  hands  ?"  he 
urged  impatiently. 

<;No;  I  seem  to  have  lost  all  desire  to  go  back,"  said  Virginia 
almost  sadly. 

"Then  I  am  too  late,"  he  said  bitterly.  "It  should  belong  to 
Stephen,"  he  urged,  making  his  final  appeal.  "And  it  should  come 
to  him  from  you;  it  was  his  father's  home,  and  his  grandfather's, 
each  generation  has  lived  there  since  the  Landrays  came  *o  Ohio; 
\t  should  remain  in  the  family." 

But  Virginia  only  shook  her  head. 

Benson,  too,  was  silent,  but  he  was  more  deeply  hurt  than  he 
would  allow  even  to  himself.  He  had  set  his  heart  on  her  going  back. 
It  would  be  something  accomplished  in  the  way  of  reparation  for 
the  wrong  he  had  done  her;  it  would  have  made  it  the  easier  for  him 
to  endure  the  consciousness  of  that  wrong,  since  he  lived  in  its  pres- 
ence always;  more  than  this,  he  had  conceived  it  possible  that  amidst 
the  old  surroundings  the  old  relationship  might  be  re-established. 
He  was  haunted  by  his  memories;  he  wished  to  know  again  the  sen- 
timent of  days  long  past  but  unforgotten  and  unforgetable.  And  now, 
as  always,  he  encountered  her  opposition,  and  realized  that  her  will 
was  stronger  than  his  own;  surely  love  had  written  failure  large  at 
each  crisis  of  his  life.  It  had  made  of  him,  an  honest  man,  a 
trickster  and  a  cheat.  What  was  he  living  for;  he  was  verging  on 
fifty;  there  were  moments  when  he  felt  his  age  in  all  its  tragic  incom- 
pleteness. He  had  been  defrauded  of  what  was  best  in  life;  unfruitful 
endeavour  had  embittered  him,  and  shame  was  in  his  heart.  After 
all,  the  wrong  he  had  done  her  was  insignificant  when  compared 
with  the  wrong  she  had  done  him,  for  he  might  at  any  time  by  a  sim- 
ple act  well  within  his  power  make  restitution;  but  nothing  could 
give  him  back  the  years  he  had  wasted  in  her  service,  and  at  every 
turn  he  had  found  her  unyielding  and  determined,  willing  to  profit 
by  his  devotion,  but  returning  nothing. 

"You  were  speaking  of  Stephen  a  moment  ago,"  said  Virginia. 

He  did  not  answer  her  at  once,  his  anger  toward  her  had  not  left 
him. 

"About  the  boy,"  wheeling  suddenly,  and  allowing  his  glance,  * 
moody  and  resentful,  to  rest  upon  her.  "Perhaps  you  will  think  what 

have  to  propose,  unreasonable;  but  what  little  I  have  done  for  you 
'^-s  been  done  as  you  would  have  it,  never  as  I  wanted  it,  and  we 

y.-e  both  suffered  unnecessarily  in  consequence;  but  with  the  boy, 


354  THE  LANDRAYS 

if  I  am  to  do  for  him  it  must  be  in  my  own  way,  otherwise  I  can 
do  nothing." 

Virginia  did  not  speak,  but  at  his  words  the  look  of  alarm  came 
into  her  face  again. 

"It  was  Stephen's  wish  that  I  should  assume  the  care  of  his  son. 
He  probably  felt  that  I  could  do  for  him  in  ways  you  never  can, 
Virginia.  I  will  take  the  boy,"  he  said  abruptly. 

"You  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  answered  Virginia  quietly, 
but  her  eyes  flashed. 

He  did  not  seem  to  hear  her,  for  he  continued: 

"I  have  at  last  decided  that  I  can  do  this.  Perhaps  it  is  my  duty; 
after  all,  he  is  no  more  a  Landray  than  he  is  a  Benson." 

By  a  gesture  Virginia  seemed  to  put  aside  this  idea.  The  boy  had 
the  Landray  look. 

"He  is  the  image  of  his  father,"  she  said  tenderly. 

Benson  smiled. 

"It  has  taken  me  a  good  while  to  decide  what  I  can  do,  Virginia. 
I  hope  you  have  not  given  your  heart  wholly  to  the  child." 

Still  she  did  not  fully  comprehend  the  drift  of  what  he  was  saying. 

"If  you  will  surrender  him  to  me,  I  will  make  myself  responsible 
for  his  future.  I  shall,  of  course,  be  willing  that  you  should  see 
him." 

"Willing  I  should  see  him!"  exclaimed  Virginia.  "Mr.  Benson, 
have  you  quite  taken  leave  of  your  senses  ?" 

"I  mean  that  I  do  not  care  to  share  my  responsibility  with  any- 
one, not  even  with  you,  Virginia;  for  I  cannot  believe  in  a  divided 
authority  in  so  serious  a  matter.  The  mistakes  made  in  Stephen's 
case  must  not  be  made  in  his." 

"What  were  the  mistakes?"  cried  Virginia.  "Was  there  ever  a 
better,  braver  boy —  did  he  ever  fail  in  affection  ?  That  he  was  un- 
fortunate, that  he  too  early  in  life  took  to  himself  burdens  he  should 
not  have  assumed  is  true  enough,  but  his  faults  were  the  faults  of  a 
generous  youth!" 

"They  were  disastrous  enough,"  retorted  Benson  coldly.  "And  I 
wish  to  spare  his  son  similar  error,  similar  hardship.  I  don't  expect 
you  to  decide  to-day  — 

"I  have  already  decided,"  answered  Virginia.  "I  would  not  trust 
him  to  you." 

"When  have  I  been  unkind,  Virginia?"  he  asked. 

"  I  no  longer  feel  that  I  know  you,"  she  replied. 


CHAPTER  FORTY  355 

"There  is  one  answer  for  that,  one  explanation;  you  Know  what 
it  is,  Virginia,"  he  said  still  coldly. 

"You  blame  me  after  all  these  years." 
"They  have  been  lonely  ones,"  he  said. 
"  Because  I  could  not  give  you  what  was  not  mine  to  give." 
He  ran  his  fingers  through  his  thin  grey  hair,  and  smiled  almost 
whimsically. 

"I  am  not  grateful  for  failure;  I  find  that  day  by  day  I  am  taking 
more  account  of  success,  no  matter  what  its  kind;  and  but  for  you, 
Virginia,  I  might  have  been  a  happy  man  just  as  I  have  been  a  suc- 
cessful man;  though  after  all  success  is  easier  won  than  happiness. 
You  will  want  to  know  what  I  will  promise  on  behalf  of  the  boy,  and 
.  it's  quite  right  you  should  - 

"I  have  heard  enough,"  she  said,  but  he  went  on  unheeding  her. 

"You  must  remember  that  aside  from  Gibbs's  wife,  the  boy  is 

nearer  me  than  any  one  else,  and  that  I  am  a  rich  man;  yet  you  are  to 

understand  that  what  I  may  do  for  him  will  be  much  or  little  as  he 

proves  himself  worthy  or  unworthy.  But  he  shall  have  every  advant 

age  that  money  will  give.  You  are  ambitious  for  him  ;  he  shall  have 

a  profession  and  a  free  and  unhampered  start  in  life.  Can  you  do  as 

much  for  him?"  .  ~r 

"You  know  I  cannot,"  she  said.  "Why  do  you  tempt  me?  Of 

course  I  am  ambitious  for  him." 

"Then  let  me  gratify  you;  I  do  not  mean  that  you  are  to  be  en- 
tirely separated  from  him;  but  until  he  goes  away  to  school  1  wis. 
him  to  be  an  inmate  of  my  house.  This  is  not  an  unfair  demand;  you 
could  hardly  expect  that  I  would  ask  less."  .  ( 

"  But  how  do  I  know  how  you  will  treat  him  ?     asked  Virginia. 
"You  can  learn  from  the  boy  himself,"  answered  Benson  smiling. 
"I  did  not  suppose  that  you  think  me  capable  of  unkmdness  or  b 
tality,"  he  added  with  quiet  sarcasm. 

"  He  will  be  lonely."  ,    .,.    .  . 

"Most  likely,"  said  Benson  composedly.  "Understand,  Virginia, 
if  you  prefer  to  be  alone  responsible  for  his  future,  I  have  no  den 
to  interfere  in  your  plans,  though  Stephen's  letter  gives  me  a  definit 
claim;  but  I  shall  never  urge  this  claim    it  is  simply  that  I ^dc >  no 
believe  in  a  divided  authority;  and  I  beg  you  to  remember  wh 

Stephen's  life  was."  ,  u .     11 

"You  must  not  speak  of  that  to  me,  I  could  have  saved  him  had 

I  known!" 


356  THE  LANDRAYS 

"It  was  the  hardness  of  conditions  that  killed  him.  He  only  knew 
failure;  and  I  have  something  better  than  that  to  offer  his  son.  You 
love  the  boy,  Virginia,  how  do  you  know  I  may  not  love  him,  too  ? 
Few  men  are  more  alone  in  the  world  than  I,  why  should  I  not  love 
him  just  as  you  love  him?"  My  plans  for  him  as  I  have  thought 
them  out,  would  be  to  send  him  away  to  school  as  soon  as  he  is  old 
enough.  This  I  regard  as  necessary,  for  if  he  remains  here,  he  will 
inevitably  get  a  wrong  idea,  perhaps  an  injurious  idea,  as  to  his 
relation  to  me,  and  his  expectations." 

"You  have  not  even  seen  him,"  said  Virginia. 

"  But  you  tell  me  he  is  like  his  father.  I  was  fond  of  his  father  once." 

"Yet  you  would  do  nothing  for  him,"  she  said  bitterly. 

"He  did  not  want  me  to;  he  would  have  accepted  nothing  from  me 
had  I  offered  it.  I  don't  reproach  myself  with  anything  there.  It  was 
only  that  his  love  for  his  son  was  a  stronger  passion  than  his  pride, 
that  made  it  possible  for  him  to  appeal  to  me." 

"But  I  am  to  see  Stephen." 

"As  often  as  you  like,  but  he  is  to  live  with  me,  Virginia;  this  is  to 
be  clearly  understood  between  us;  my  house  will  be  his  home.  You 
can  trust  him  to  me  quite  safely,  and  I  shall  end  by  caring  for  him; 
perhaps  not  as  you  love  him;  but  still  I  may  feel  deeply  and  sincerely 
toward  him." 

"I  will  give  you  my  answer  in  a  few  days,"  said  Virginia  rising 
hastily. 

"As  you  like,"  said  Benson,  following  her  example,  and  a  gleam 
of  triumph  flashed  in  his  eyes.  He  knew  what  her  answer  would  be. 


CHAPTER  FORTY-ONE 

STEPHEN  was  a  lonely  little  figure  in  Benson  s  great  house; 
he  was  vastly  depressed  by  the  formal  manner  of  life  to  which 
the  lawyer  had  adjusted  himself,  and  for  which  Mrs.  Pope  his 
housekeeper  was  primarily  responsible,  for  Benson  was  a  silent  man 
in  his  home,  and    admirable   lady  that  she  was,  Mrs.  Pope  was 
neither  a  gay  nor  cheerful  person,  nor  was  she  gifted  in  ways  to 
inspire  others  with  gaiety  or  cheerfulness. 

By  day  the  house  was  his  to  wander  through;  there  were  also  the 
grounds,  into  which  he  was  thrust  at  stated  intervals  by  Mrs.  Pope, 
all  of  whose  acts  were  depressingly  regular  and  ordered.  In  the  gar- 
dens, working  diligently  among  the  plants  or  vines,  or  cutting  the 
acre  or  two  devoted  to  lawns,  Stephen  found  a  taciturn  German 
whose  name  was  Peter,  and  who  limited  his  remarks  to  brief  requests 
for  the  boy  to  let  the  flowers  alone;  nor  was  he  to  touch  the  small 
fruits;  for  these,  like  the  flowers,  Stephen  was  given  to  understand, 
were  grown  expressly  for  Mr.  Benson's  use  and  profit. 

He  gathered  that  the  world  had  been  created  for  this  austere  gen- 
tleman, whom  he  knew  as  his-Uncle  Jacob.  He  was  indebted  to  Mrs. 
Pope  for  this  idea,  since  she  served  the  lawyer  with  an  eye  single  to  his 
comforts.  His  Uncle  Jacob  objected  to  dirt,  consequently  he  must 
keep  clean;  his  Uncle  Jacob  objected  to  noise,  he  was  restricted  to 
silence;  his  Uncle  Jacob  liked  flowers,  and  Peter  laboured  that  they 
might  bloom  for  him.  Things  were  only  of  two  sorts;  what  his  Uncle 
Jacob  liked  and  what  his  Uncle  Jacob  did  not  like,  and  as  one  heeded 
his  likes  and  dislikes  one  touched  hands  with  morality  and  right- 
eousness. 

As  Benson  had  promised,  Stephen  was  not  entirely  separated  frorr 
his  aunt;  at  least  twice  each  week  he  was  dressed  in  his  best,  and  by 
Mrs.  Pope  taken  to  pay  Virginia  a  visit.  But  these  visits  were  func- 
tions attended  by  such  formality  that  he  derived  small  comfort  from 
them,  and  in  time  he  came  to  rather  dread  the  preliminary  ordeals. 

357 


358  THE  LANDRAYS 

of  which  he  was  the  victim.  There  was  always  a  bath,  and  he  donned 
the  freshest  of  fresh  linen,  stiff  and  miserably  unsympathetic;  an 
unfamiliar  suit  of  clothes  to  which  he  never  grew  accustomed,  and 
in  which  his  small  limbs  were  cheerlessly  draped,  completed  his  toilet. 
Thus  attired,  Mrs.  Pope  would  lead  him  to  the  front  steps,  and  Peter 
would  drive  around  from  the  stables  with  a  closed  carnage.  Thev 
there  invariably  ensued  certain  lively  and  apprehensive  inquiries  on 
the  part  of  Mrs.  Pope  as  to  whether  or  not  the  team  had  shown  any 
undue  levity  while  being  harnessed,  for  the  good  lady  was  timorous  of 
all  horse-flesh  as  well  as  the  prey  of  an  abiding  and  illy-concealed 
doubt  of  the  German's  skill  as  a  driver;  however,  being  satisfied  on 
the  one  point  if  not  on  the  other,  she  would  embark  her  small  charge, 
and  then  herself;  driving  to  the  cottage  with  the  carriage  door  held 
slightly  ajar,  a  precaution  favouring  instant  escape  in  case  of  danger. 
Arrived  there  she  would  leave  Stephen  with  Virginia  and  be  driven 
away  in  painful  state  to  take  the  air. 

Then  came  a  period  of  freedom  and  relief  for  the  boy;  he  had  Vir- 
ginia, and  there  was  his  Aunt  Jane,  who  occupied  an  almost  equal 
place  in  his  affections  with  Virginia  herself;  and  sometimes  there 
was  Harriett  Norton,  too,  with  a  very  pink-faced  baby,  named  Elinor, 
and  a  husband  who  Stephen  discovered  early  in  their  acquaintance 
could  be  persuaded  into  the  most  delightful  extravagance  in  the 
matter  of  candy;  and  for  perhaps  an  hour  he  would  be  quite  happy, 
so  happy  he  could  almost  forget  that  he  had  an  Uncle  Jacob;  and  at 
this  period  of  his  life,  his  Uncle  Jacob  seemed  responsible  for  all  the 
misery  in  the  world. 

Then  Mrs.  Pope  would  return,  and  Virginia  with  a  strange  hard- 
ening of  the  heart  would  restore  him  to  that  august  ladv.  Benson 
could  not  have  divined  how  well  he  was  hated. 

The  lawyer  had  contented  himself  with  seeing  that  Stephen  wanted 
for  nothing,  that  he  was  well  dressed  and  well  nourished;  but  he  was 
such  a  little  fellow,  and  so  palpably  depressed  by  the  authority  which 
Mrs.  Pope  administered,  that  Benson  almost  regretted  he  had  forced 
Virginia  to  the  step  he  had.  His  triumph  left  an  aftermath  of  self- 
reproach  and  disgust.  He  had  stooped  to  petty  persecution,  and 
clearly  the  boy  himself  was  far  from  happy  as  a  result.  It  was  his 
wish  to  mitigate  the  wrong  he  felt  he  had  done  the  child,  which  in 
the  end  provoked  him  to  a  display  of  something  approaching  per- 
sonal interest.  He  was  conscious  that  Stephen  met  his  advances  with 
childish  mistrust,  but  this  wore  away;  the  lawyer's  gentleness  and 


CHAPTER  FORTY-ONE  359 

kindness  had  their  effect  just  as  he  intended  they  should,  and  Ste- 
phen put  aside  his  doubt  of  his  Uncle  Jacob,  and  concluded  that  he 
was  ever  so  much  better  than  Mrs.  Pope's  account  of  him. 

Benson  felt  that  he  should  have  associates  of  his  own  age,  that  Mrs. 
Pope  and  Peter  were  not  exactly  the  most  engaging  companions  he 
could  have,  but  there  were  no  boys  in  the  neighbourhood  whose  man- 
ners or  morals  fitted  them  to  be  his  playfellows.  True,  there  was  a 
region  of  back  streets  and  alleys  in  the  rear  of  his  ample  grounds, 
overlooked  by  small  frame  dwellings;  here  there  were  children  of  all 
ages,  and  in  course  of  time  Stephen  came  to  know  certain  of  these 
youthful  neighbours  of  his,  for  while  he  had  seemed  cut  off  from 
them  by  barriers  whose  nature  he  did  not  comprehend,  he  had  1 
been  aware  that  the  world  held  the  possibility  of  a  more  desirabl 
companionship  than  that  he  was  knowing. 

There  were  also  strange  small  boys  whom  he  occasionally  saw 
scurrying  through  the  garden  or  dodging  among  the  grape  arbours. 
The/had  appeared  with  the  first  half-ripe  strawberry;  they  came 
again  when  the  big  Lorton  blackberries  were  hard  as  bullets;  then 
their  visits  languished  for  a  little  space;  but  when  the  early  harvest 
apples  on  the  two  big  trees  back  of  the  barn  were  the  size  of  turkey 
eggs,  they  reappeared,  this  time  armed  with  clubs,  and  there  was  a 
fine  rattling  among  the  branches. 

The  effect  of  these  depredations  on  Peter  was  not  wholly  pleasant, 
indeed  at  first  Stephen  had  regarded  him  with  W1de-eyed  terror;  f< 

_        .  i  *•*•**«-•  r\  crc  onH     Qt"T"^nP'61  O3.LI1S 


a  bellv  full  of  beer  —  belly  full  of  beer! 

In  possession  of  the  field,  Peter  would  retire  to  the  stables  i  where 


s  Stehen  was  wandering  aimlessly  through  the  garden 


OT 


360  THE  LANDRAYS 

red-handed  from  among  the  strawberries  or  fleeing  from  among  the 
blackberries.  It  was  this  same  boy  who  had  led  in  the  assaults  upon 
the  early  apples,  and  here  he  was  back  again  with  the  first  ripening 
colour  that  touched  the  grapes. 

Stephen's  first  idea  was  to  withdraw;  he  felt  keenly  the  em- 
barrassment of  the  situation,  since  the  boy  was  clearly  most  im- 
morally engaged  in  theft,  but  while  he  still  paused  irresolutely,  hardly 
knowing  what  to  do,  the  barefoot  stranger  suddenly  suspended  his 
attack  on  the  grapes  to  glance  warily  and  shrewdly  about,  and  saw 
Stephen  in  his  turn. 

It  was  apparent  that  his  first  uncontrollable  impulse  was  flight, 
for  he  expected  Peter  to  be  somewhere  close  at  hand;  but  the  gar- 
dener was  working  the  lawn-mower  remote  on  the  front  lawn,  and 
the  rattle  of  his  machine  came  reassuringly  to  his  ears.  His  mind 
relieved  on  this  score  he  instantly  resumed  operations,  now  and  again 
casting  a  glance  over  his  shoulder  in  Stephen's  direction.  Evidently 
he  had  expected  the  latter  to  rush  off"  to  warn  Peter,  but  Stephen  did 
nothing  of  the  sort,  he  merely  stared  at  the  intruder. 

"Hullo,  poppy  eyes!"  said  the  boy.  "What  are  you  doing  here? 
Ain't  you  afraid  old  Dutchy  will  come  swarming  out  here  and  light 
into  you  ?" 

Stephen  answered  him  by  a  shy,  wistful  smile;  he  felt  that  he  had 
at  last  made  a  comforting  acquaintance. 

"I  got  enough,"  said  the  stranger.  "Green  grapes  are  great  for 
the  cramps." 

Stephen  did  not  know  this,  but  he  was  politely  interested;  there 
was  one  thing  he  wanted  to  ask  the  stranger,  and  now  he  said: 

"Ain't  you  afraid  of  Peter?" 

"Afraid  of  Dutchy?"  with  infinite  scorn.  "If  he  comes  around 
here,  him  and  me  will  see  times!  Say,  what's  your  name  ?" 

"Stephen  Landray." 

"Mine's  Benjamin  Wade;  but  you  can  call  me  Ben  for  short  if  you 
want  to." 

Stephen  looked  his  gratitude  for  the  privilege. 

''Where  did  you  get  in  ?"  asked  Stephen. 

"Over  the  back  fence  and  up  through  the  orchard.  I  manage  to 
keep  a  board  off  the  fence  most  of  the  time,  but  old  Dutchy's  pretty 
patient  about  nailing  it  up.  Them  Germans  ain't  easily  discouraged; 
seems  like  he  is  always  hoping  he  can  get  it  to  stick." 

Then  he  showed  Stephen  the  inner  economy  of  his  ragged  jacket; 


CHAPTER  FORTY-ONE  36, 

he  had  removed  the  linings  of  each  pocket  and  the  result  was  a  sack- 
like  receptacle  which  he  told  Stephen,  after  calling  upon  him  to  ad- 
mire the  ingenuity  of  the  arrangement,  would  hold  by  actual  meas- 
urement, a  peck  of  apples. 

"I'm  fond  of  fruit,"  he  explained.  "Once,  old  Jake  Benson  caught 
me  here  —  I  was  in  his  strawberries.  Say,  I  was  stiff!  He  most  scared 
the  life  out  of  me,  he  come  on  me  so  sudden,  but  he  only  asked  me 
what  I  was  doing;  he's  all  right!  What  did  you  say  your  name 
was?" 

"Stephen  Landray,"  repeated  Stephen. 

The  boy  considered. 

"There's  Landray's  hill,  Landray's  woods,  Landray's  race,  and 
Landray's  mill  —  but  it  ain't  running  any  more  —  and  Landray's 
fork;  ever  been  to  any  of  'em  ?" 

Stephen  was  forced  to  own  that  he  had  not. 

"Well,  I'll  show  'em  to  you  some  day.  I  go  to  all  them  places  often." 

Benjamin  Wade  was  preparing  to  take  his  departure,  and  the 
smaller  boy  was  sorry  enough  to  see  him  go. 

"I'll  tell  you,  I'm  coming  back  —  maybe  about  this  time  to-mor- 
row; and  I  may  bring  a  feller  or  two  with  me.  I'll  show  you  where 
you  be  back  of  the  arbours  so  as  we  can  find  you."  And  he  led  the 
way  to  a  snug  hiding-place,  well  screened  from  observation.  "You 
be  here  just  about  now  to-morrow  and  we  may  happen  along." 

Benjamin  Wade  seemed  a  person  of  perfect  freedom,  but  one 
whose  social  obligations  were  numerous  and  pleasantly  diversified. 
Stephen  followed  him  to  the  back  fence,  and  stood  with  his  small 
wistful  face  pressed  between  the  pickets,  watching  him  from  sight 
down  the  alley.  The  lonely  little  fellow  was  in  a  fever  of  impatience 
for  the  morrow.  He  wondered  whom  the  fellers  would  be  that  Benja- 
min Wade  would  bring,  and  he  hoped  that  he  would  not  forget  to 
come  as  he  had  promised. 

Benjamin  Wade  was  as  good  as  his  word.  He  appeared  promptly 
the  next  day  at  the  appointed  place  and  hour,  and  with  him  was  a 
small  boy  whom  he  introduced  as  Spike.  He  invited  Stephen  to  ac- 
company him  and  Spike  to  a  swimming-hole  in  Landray's  fork,  and 
when  Stephen  declined  the  invitation,  as  he  felt  constrained  to  do, 
the  two  boys  promptly  left  him,  after  making  certain  insulting  com- 
ments on  his  lack  of  independence. 

He  feared  that  he  had  lost  them  forever,  and  was  reduced  to  tears 
in  consequence.  But  the  very  next  day  Benjamin  Wade  reappeared 


362  THE  LANDRAYS 

at  the  same  hour  and  at  the  appointed  trysting  place,  accompanied 
by  Spike  and  a  second  small  boy  called  Reddy. 

The  four  squatted  on  the  grass  back  of  the  arbours  and  pro- 
ceeded to  assiduously  cultivate  an  acquaintance.  Reddy  was  of  an 
inquiring  mind  beyond  what  was  natural  even  to  a  small  boy  meeting 
a  strange  small  boy  for  the  first  time.  Stephen's  occupation  seemed 
to  rest  heavy  on  him.  He  wanted  to  know  what  his  pursuits  were; 
and  the  nature  of  his  responsibilities  in  life;  and  particularly  where 
the  authority  of  his  elders  limited  his  freedom. 

Stephen  dutifully  told  him  of  Mr.  Benson  and  of  Mrs.  Pope;  that 
it  was  she  who  sent  him  out  into  the  yard  to  play;  that  he  had  the 
choice  of  either  the  front  lawn  or  the  garden,  but  that  the  barn  was 
under  a  ban  as  being  dangerous. 

"You  hear  that,  you  fellows  ?  I'd  be  gosh  darned  if  I'd  let  her  dic- 
tate to  me!"  said  Reddy  who  was  of  a  violent  nature.  "Does  she  give 
you  anything  to  play  with,  that's  what  I  want  to  know." 

Stephen  was  forced  to  confess  that  she  did  not. 

"That's  just  like  a  woman!  I  wonder  how  she  thinks  you're  going 
to  play!  I  just  wouldn't  play,  I'd  learn  her  she  couldn't  boss  me!" 

He  seemed  quite  incensed  at  the  unreasonableness  of  the  situa- 
tion, and  Stephen  was  not  free  from  an  uneasy  suspicion  that  he 
regarded  him  as  mean  spirited  in  consequence  of  his  quiet  accept- 
ance of  it. 

Then  it  appeared  that  Reddy,  his  name  was  Riley  Crittendon, 
was  the  only  child  and  despair  of  a  widow  whose  straitened  circum- 
stances were  sufficiently  advertised  by  his  clothes,  which  in  no  way 
fitted  his  lean  active  figure.  Benjamin  Wade  explained  that  Reddy, 
like  the  barn,  was  under  a  ban;  and  that  he  consorted  with  him  only 
at  great  personal  risk,  since  his  father  had  repeatedly  threatened  him 
with  corporal  chastisement  if  he  so  much  as  recognized  his  iniqui- 
tous existence. 

Stephen's  innocent  eyes  grew  wide  at  this. 

The  same  was  true  in  the  case  of  Spike.  All  that  Benjamin  Wade's 
father  had  promised  Benjamin  Wade,  Spike's  father  had  promised 
him,  and  Spike  intimated  that  he  was  singularly  capable  of  fulfilling 
each  promise  he  had  made;  yet  in  spite  of  this,  they  both  associated 
with  Reddy  indefatigably,  but  in  the  unostentatious  manner  favoured 
by  back  alleys. 

Reddy's  career  of  crime  seemed  to  have  embraced  a  long  category 
of  evil  and  wrong-doing.  He  had  once  run  away  from  home  with  a 


CHAPTER  FORTY-ONE  363 

circus;  he  had  twice  narrowly  escaped  drowning,  by  venturing  on 
the  thin  ice  he  had  been  forbidden  to  venture  on  in  the  early  winter; 
his  crowning  achievement,  however,  was  having  been  blown  up  in  a 
Fourth  of  July  celebration  which  he  had  arranged  with  stolen  pow- 
der; but  the  complete  list  of  his  crimes  would  have  filled  a  long  sum- 
mer afternoon. 

It  was  Benjamin  Wade  who  constituted  himself  Reddy's  historian, 
though  he  received  occasional  promptings  from  Spike,  who  seemed 
most  anxious  that  he  should  overlook  no  act  that  had  gone  to  make 
up  the  sum  and  substance  of  Reddy's  iniquity;  and  while  Benjamin 
Wade  was  thus  busy,  Reddy  himself  was  seen  to  visibly  swell  with 
pride. 

Stephen,  piously  reared  and  with  certain  maxims  of  Mrs.  Pope's 
New  England  morality  fresh  in  his  mind,  and  rejoicing  in  the  re- 
cently acquired  knowledge  that  there  was  such  a  place  as  hell,  appar- 
ently especially  designed  for  little  boys  who  were  a  trouble  to  their 
elders,  or  who  told  lies  or  stole,  or  otherwise  misconducted  them- 
selves, was  in  momentary  fear  that  the  hardened  sinner  before  him 
would  be  forcibly  dragged  from  their  midst  by  a  legion  of  devils;  but 
nothing  of  the  sort  happened.  Reddy  chuckled  and  gurgled  as  Ben 
;:nd  Spike  proceeded  with  the  story  of  his  crimes;  no  Voice  issued 
from  the  wide  blue  arch  above  them,  and  the  earth  at  their  feet  did 
not  rend  itself;  evidently  Mrs.  Pope's  facts  were  not  designed  to  fit 
the  peculiar  case  of  Riley  Crittendon. 

''But  you  are  almost  as  bad;  ain't  you?"  he  said  to  Benjamin 
W  tde.  "You  steal;"  but  he  spoke  with  some  trepidation,  at  its  worst 
this  was  evidently  a  venial  error. 

"I  ain't  a  patch  on  him,  am  I  Reddy?" 

"Naw,"  said  Reddy  disdainfully. 

"There  ain't  a  feller  in  this  part  of  town,  maybe  not  in  the  whole 
town  that  can  touch  Reddy!"  said  Spike  generously;  and  Reddy 
chuckled  and  gurgled  again  at  this. 

When  they  had  sufficiently  glorified  Reddy,  they  imparted  to  Ste- 
phen facts  that  he  had  not  known  before;  amongst  others,  that  old 
Jake  Benson  was  the  richest  man  in  town,  and  that  he,  Stephen,  was 
reputed  to  be  the  lawyer's  heir,  this  was  very  pleasant,  but  Stephen 
was  profoundly  shocked  when  the  abandoned  Reddy  said: 

"I  should  think  you  would  be  mighty  anxious  to  have  him  die 
quick  so  as  you  could  get  your  hand  on  his  money  and  spend  it  —  I 
bet  I  would!" 


364  THE  LANDRAYS 

After  this  Stephen  saw  much  of  the  boys,  and  they  helped  him 
through  the  long  summer  days;  but  he  only  saw  them  in  the  safe 
retreat  back  of  the  grape  arbours;  they  dared  not  venture  further  into 
the  grounds  with  him  where  they  would  fall  under  Peter's  eye,  and 
he  dared  not  quit  the  grounds  with  them,  though  once  or  twice  he 
mustered  courage  to  go  into  the  back  alley  with  Benjamin  Wade, 
and  was  promptly  returned  to  his  own  domain  by  the  sinful  Reddy, 
who  seemed  to  have  established  himself  his  mentor  in  all  nice 
questions  of  morality.  It  was  also  Reddy  who  advanced  the  theory 
that  when  they  came  to  see  Stephen,  they  must  let  old  Dutchy's  fruit 
alone,  and  when  Spike  took  it  upon  himself  to  violate  this  rule  of 
conduct  it  was  the  capable  Reddy  who  blacked  his  eye. 

In  the  end  Stephen  came  to  see  more  of  Reddy  than  he  did  of 
either  of  the  other  boys,  and  he  finally  asked  Benson's  permission  to 
have  him  in  to  play  —  and  would  he  please  tell  Peter  not  to  chase 
him  out  of  the  yard. 

Benson  seemed  to  think  it  well  that  he  should  have  a  playfellow  of 
his  own  age,  that  is,  if  this  playfellow  were  a  good  boy;  and  Stephen 
answered  diplomatically,  that  Reddy  was  always  a  very  good  boy 
when  he  was  in  the  yard. 

"Oh,  then  you  have  had  him  in,  Stephen  ?"  and  Benson  laughed. 

"Yes,  but  only  near  the  fence;  he's  afraid  of  Dutch  —  of  Peter." 

"Well,  if  he  behaves  himself  as  well  as  you  say  he  does,  I  guess 
Peter  won't  interfere  with  him.  I'll  tell  him  not  to.  What's  his  name  ?" 

"Reddy,"  said  Stephen,  for  beyond  this  he  did  not  know  that  his 
friend  had  a  name. 

Fortunately  this  meant  nothing  to  Benson  who  had  never  heard  of 
any  such  boy. 

When  Reddy  was  informed  that  he  was  free  to  play  in  the  grounds, 
he  inspected  the  entire  premises  with  wary  caution,  and  could  not  on 
the  first  visit  be  induced  to  go  within  several  hundred  yards  of  the 
gardener.  Yet  on  a  subsequent  visit  Peter  coming  upon  the  small 
sinner  quite  unexpectedly,  presented  him  with  a  red  apple,  and  thus 
peace  and  good-will  was  established  between  them. 

"After  that  I'll  never  yell  belly  full  of  beer  at  him  any  more,"  said 
Reddy  contritely. 

Stephen  would  have  liked  to  introduce  him  to  the  splendours  of 
the  house  itself,  but  he  never  succeeded  in  this;  nothing  would  induce 
Reddy  to  enter  it;  and  he  fled  instantly  at  sight  of  Mrs.  Pope;  which, 
after  all,  was  perhaps  just  as  well,  as  she  saw  him  but  vaguely  through 


CHAPTER   FORTY-ONE  365 

glasses  which  she  was  never  quite  able  to  bring  to  bear  upon  him  in 
season,  and  so  he  escaped  identification  which  could  only  have  re- 
sulted disastrously.  She  said  he  seemed  a  shy  child. 

But  Benson  was  preparing  for  Stephen's  future  in  accordance  with 
certain  theories  of  his  own.  Business  had  taken  him  East  during  the 
summer,  and  while  there  he  had  visited  several  boys'  schools.  At  last 
he  found  just  such  an  institution  as  he  was  looking  for.  It  was  both  a 
school  and  a  home.  Here  Stephen  would  have  the  care  he  could  not 
himself  give  him,  he  would  have  proper  associates  of  his  own  age, 
and  there  would  be  no  danger  of  his  acquiring  false  and  harmful 
ideas  as  he  grew  older  as  to  his  expectations  in  life.  It  was  no  part  of 
the  lawyer's  plan  that  the  boy  should  be  brought  back  to  Benson,  at 
least,  not  until  his  habits  and  judgments  were  formed.  As  to  his  prom- 
ise to  Virginia  that  she  should  not  be  wholly  separated  from  Stephen, 
it  had  already  become  irksome  to  him.  Stephen  was  his  care,  his  re- 
sponsibility; no  part  of  it  would  he  share  with  her;  the  boy  must 
learn  to  look  to  him  for  everything. 

His  farewells  were  a  bitter,  grievous  thing  to  Stephen.  They  came 
quick  upon  Benson's  return  home,  and  the  parting  with  his  Aunt 
Virginia,  and  his  Aunt  Jane,  and  Harriett,  and  the  baby,  tore  his 
small  heart  as  no  grief  that  had  yet  entered  into  his  life  had  torn  it. 
The  very  stability  of  things  seemed  to  shake  under  him;  he  was 
stunned  and  stupefied.  He  was  to  go  so  far  away,  he  could  not  see  his 
Aunt  Virginia,  his  Aunt  Jane,  Harriett,  or  the  baby  —  and  the  boys! 
He  would  probably  never  see  Spike,  or  Reddy,  or  Benjamin  Wade 


again' 


1  ...     , 

The  promise  of  a  return  to  Benson  the  next  summer,  which  th 
lawyer  had  not  been  able  to  deny  him,  was  no  comfort  to  him.  If  the 
intervening  months  had  been  years  they  could  not  have  been  more 
terrible  to  him. 

This  knowledge  that  he  was  to  go  away,  and  his  farewells  at  th 
cottage   all  fell  on  one  sad  afternoon  that  he  remembered  long  after- 
ward with  a  dreadful  sinking  of  the  heart.  Then  Mrs.  Pope  appeared 
with  Peter  and  the  carriage,  and  as  Virginia  led  him  down  the  path 
to  the  gate,  she  said:  . 

"You  will  not  forget  to  love  us,  Stephen  dear;  and  it  will  noi 
for  so  very  long,  for  you  will  come  back  next  summer;"  and  so  she 
surrendered  him  with  a  final  kiss  to  Mrs.  Pope. 

Stephen  shrank  into  his  seat  as  they  were  driven  away;  he  did  not 
trust  himself  to  look  back  at  the  little  group  they  were  leaving,  for 


366  THE  LANDRAYS 

he  was  aware  that  Mrs.  Pope  was  not  sympathetic  when  small  boys 
were  moved  to  tears,  since  grief  was  quite  as  objectionable  to  her 
as  any  crude  or  noisy  expression  of  joy. 

When  they  reached  home,  he  walked  disconsolately  in  the  garden. 
He  hoped  Reddy,  or  Spike,  or  Benjamin  Wade,  would  visit  him  in  his 
misery  and  sickness  of  spirit,  for  they  had  not  heard  the  tragic  news, 
and  he  would  have  greatly  valued  an  expression  of  opinion  from  one 
of  them.  And  as  he  was  hoping  that  one  of  them  might  come,  he 
heard  a  shrill  familiar  whistle,  and  Reddy  appeared  from  the  back 
alley. 

Stephen  told  the  sorrowful  news,  and  as  he  told  it,  strange  things 
happened  to  Reddy's  face.  Then  all  at  once  he  burst  into  loud  wail- 
ings,  and  turning  from  Stephen,  fled  across  the  green  lawn,  down 
the  shaded  rows  between  the  grape  arbours,  through  the  apple 
orchard,  through  a  hole  in  the  fence,  and  disappeared  in  the  alley 
beyond.  It  was  in  vain  that  Stephen  called  after  him,  shakingly, 
chokingly: 

"Reddy!  Reddy,  come  back!  That  ain't  near  all!  Oh,  please, 
Reddy,  come  back!" 

With  the  last  flutter  of  Reddy's  ragged  jacket  in  the  distance, 
Stephen's  heart  seemed  to  break.  He  threw  himself  face  down  on 
the  ground,  and  wept  bitterly. 

The  next  day  he  was  led  resolutely  to  the  'bus  by  Mrs.  Pope, 
where  his  Uncle  Jacob  had  preceded  him,  and  whither  his  small 
trunk  had  already  been  conveyed;  and  as  he  slowly  took  his  seat 
beside  the  lawyer,  he  glanced  from  the  window  and  saw  across  the 
lawn  three  small  bare-legged  figures  in  the  street. 

It  was  Reddy,  with  Spike,  and  Benjamin  Wade;  they  had 
assembled  to  see  him  off,  and  now,  as  he  left  the  grounds,  they 
cheered  him  lustily.  At  least,  Ben  and  Spike  did,  for  Reddy,  in 
the  gutter  was  turning  handsprings  —  his  most  valued  accomplish- 
ment—  with  bewildering  rapidity,  to  hide  his  emotions;  while  de- 
scending upon  the  three,  Stephen  caught  sight  of  Peter  armed  with 
a  garden  rake.  This  was  the  last  he  saw  of  them;  for  though  he 
looked  again  and  again,  his  eyes  were  blinded  with  tears. 


CHAPTER  FORTY-TWO 

IN  the  silence  and  solitude  of  his  home,  by  his  winter  fireside, 
Benson  diagnosed  his  own  case.  His,  he  knew,  was  a  moral 
malady.  The  years  had  given  him  everything  save  happiness; 
and  because  he  had  not  happiness  he  was  sick.  Life  had  been  worse 
than  wasted. 

It  was  in  the  final  analysis  that  he  reduced  his  case  to  this.  He  was 
aware  that  it  was  not  alone  in  his  relation  to  Virginia  that  he  had 
changed;  he  knew  that  he  had  grown  hard,  and  none  top  scrupulous; 
that  while  his  outward  manner  remained  one  of  consideration  and 
kindness  even,  he  had  developed  a  secret  passion  for  accumulation. 
This  had  been  of  steady  growth.  He  desired  wealth  and  power,  not 
in  any  very  wide  sense  perhaps,  since  he  was  content  to  be  the  great 
man  of  his  own  little  community. 

He  compared  himself  with  what  he  could  recall  of  his  father,  and 
knew  that  he  was  reverting  to  the  strongly  marked  family  type.  H< 
was  becoming  more  and  more  the  shrewd  New  Englander.  J 
receding  sap  of  pioneer  times  was  leaving  him  dry  and  externally 
emotionless.  Men  seemed  to  understand  the  change.  They  came 
to  him  less  often  now  than  formally  with  generous  projects,  more 
often  with  money-making  schemes.  In  these  he  was  always 

terested.  ..      ,  .       ,f 

Yet  throughout  he  had  preserved  a  cynical  contempt  for  himself, 
with  a  latent  feeling  of  pity,  too;  for  he  knew  just  the  sort  of  man  he 
had  been,  just  the  sort  of  man  he  had  become;  and  he  blamed  Vir 
ginia.  Indeed  he  had  come  to  blame  her  for  each  corrupting  influence 
to  which  he  had  yielded,  and  since  he  blamed  her,  he  wanted  1 
feel  the  force  of  his  resentment.  The  boy  had  given  him  this  oppo, 
tunity  in  the  fullest  measure.  He  had  removed  him  from  her  home, 
he  had  sent  him  from  Benson,  and  he  was  determined  that  sh, 
should  not  see  him  again  until  it  suited  his  whim  to  be  generous.  1 1 
might  be  a  year  hence,  or  it  might  be  ten  vears  hence;  he  only  km 


368  THE  LANDRAYS 

that  it  would  not  be  until  his  mood  changed,  until  he  was  ready  to 
show  kindness  to  her. 

Thus  it  was  that  Stephen's  first  summer  was  passed  entirely  in  the 
East.  Benson  told  Virginia  it  was  better  that  he  should  become  thor- 
oughly accustomed  to  his  surroundings;  that  to  bring  him  home 
would  only  be  to  unsettle  him.  But  he  himself  went  East  and  Stephen 
spent  two  weeks  with  him. 

The  second  year  passed  much  as  the  first  had  done,  and  now  Vir- 
ginia understood  that  Benson  wished  to  wholly  separate  her  from  the 
}>oy. 

The  lawyer  had  arranged  that  she  should  receive  periodic  reports 
as  to  his  health  and  progress.  As  these  were  always  satisfactory,  she 
had  no  grounds  for  demanding  that  he  should  be  brought  back.  She 
had  Stephen's  own  letters,  too,  which  after  he  had  outgrown  his  first 
feeling  of  homesickness,  showed  that  he  was  quite  happy  and  con- 
tented. But  with  the  passing  of  time  his  letters  became  more  and 
more  perfunctory. 

Benson  he  saw  once  or  twice  each  year,  and  his  affection  steadily 
strengthened  toward  him.  His  Uncle  Jacob  was  able  and  generally 
quite  willing  to  confer  most  tangible  benefits,  he  could  not  have  been 
more  generous,  nor  have  shown  a  greater  readiness  to  do  for  him  in 
all  reasonable  ways;  and  Stephen  early  learned  that  an  appeal  to 
him  was  certain  of  results.  These  benefits  might  be  accompanied  by 
admonitory  hints  as  to  the  folly  of  extravagance,  but  he  could  always 
skip  these  hints,  and  the  lawyer's  check  was  an  asset  that  gave  him 
great  prestige  among  his  fellows. 

He  was  fortunate  in  his  teachers  perhaps,  and  it  was  all  in  his 
favour  that  he  was  constitutionally  predisposed  to  good  influences, 
and  that  they  made  a  lasting  impression  on  him;  since  his  develop- 
ment was  largely  a  matter  of  chance,  he  might  easily  have  gone  very 
far  wrong  and  no  one  been  the  wiser. 

After  the  first  two  or  three  years  at  school,  he  gave  up  all  idea,  as 
he  lost  all  desire,  to  return  to  Benson.  His  summers  were  passed 
agreeably  enough  just  where  he  was.  He  could  safely  count  on  his 
Uncle  Jacob  coming  East  during  his  vacation,  and  then  there  were 
pleasant  trips  to  the  mountains  or  seashore. 

Benson  rarely  spoke  of  his  aunt  to  him.  He  early  sensed  it  that 
they  were  not  friends,  and  he  adapted  himself  to  what  he  considered 
the  lawyer's  prejudices.  He  gradually  ceased  to  inquire  about  Reddy 
or  Benjamin  Wade  or  Spike,  for  here  the  lawyer's  information  was 


CHAPTER  FORTY-TWO  :  369 

meagre  and  uncertain;  and  after  a  few  years  his  Aunt  Virginia,  the 
boys,  Peter  the  gardener,  and  Mrs.  Pope  the  housekeeper,  fitted  into 
the  background  of  those  hazy  memories  that  now  made  up  the  sub- 
stance of  his  life  in  the  Ohio  town.'  He  came  more  and  more  to  think 
of  the  lawyer  as  a  solitary  man  without  friendships  or  associations, 
and  save  in  his  own  case,  as  both  lonely  and  unapproachable.  It 
would  have  surprised  him  not  a  little  had  he  been  told  that  in  his 
own  circle  Benson  was  a  powerful  and  dominating  figure,  even  sin- 
ister at  times,  with  concerns  and  interests  whose  magnitude  ex- 
ceeded anything  he  could  have  imagined  possible. 

His  feeling  of  mingled  tenderness  and  pity  increased  as  he  grew 
toward  manhood.  He  wished  his  Uncle  Jacob  could  be  made  fully 
aware  of  his  affection,  but  he  was  always  conscious  that  there  was 
something  in  the  lawyer's  manner  that  repelled  any  emotional  dis- 
play; that  beneath  his  kindly  dignity,  the  fibre  of  his  nature  was  cold 
and  hard.  The  utter  barrenness  of  his  life,  as  the  boy  imagined  it, 
explained  this.  It  was  the  awkwardness  of  one  who  had  lived  much 
in  solitude,  with  few  intimates  and  fewer  friends. 

He  had  been  away  at  school  ten  years,  when  something  occurred 
which  took  him  back  to  the  very  limits  at  which  his  memory  was 
active,  and  which  showed  him  that  Benson  might  have  intimacies  of 
which  he  did  not  know.  He  had  written  for  money,  and  instead  of 
the  usual  letter  from  Benson,  there  came  one  in  a  strange  hand.  Mr. 
Benson  was  absorbed  in  important  litigation,  the  writer  said,  and 
had  requested  him  to  see  to  the  mailing  of  the  enclosed  draft;  the 
writer  also  ventured  the  hope  that  his  young  friend  had  not  altogether 
forgotten  him,  in  spite  of  the  years  that  had  intervened  since  their 
last  meeting.  The  letter  was  signed  with  a  flourish,  Nathan  Gibbs. 

Stephen  remembered  vaguely  that  there  was  such  a  man,  but 
whether  he  really  remembered  him,  or  only  remembered  having 
been  told  of  him,  he  could  not  have  said.  He  wondered  though  how 
long  Gibbs  had  been  in  Benson,  and  why  his  Uncle  Jacob  had  never 
mentioned  him. 

Gibbs,  once  started  on  the  down  grade,  had  gone  from  bad  to 
worse.  There  had  been  ten  doleful  years  during  which  he  had  sunk 
lower  and  lower.  Now  and  again  he  had  made  a  manful  rally  to 
recover  his  lost  estate,  but  it  was  no  use.  Finally  such  a  point  was 
reached  that  his  Julia  took  matters  into  her  own  hands.  She  had 
written  Benson,  and  her  letter  had  been  an  urgent  appeal  for  assist- 
ance. The  lawyer  had  heeded  it,  but  he  had  no  intention  of  helping 


370  THE  LANDRAYS 

Gibbs  at  arm's  length.  If  he  was  to  make  himself  responsible  for  the 
general's  future,  he  would  have  to  be  close  at  hand  where  he  could 
keep  him  under  some  sort  of  surveillance. 

He  had  made  his  arrangement  with  Julia  —  the  general  appeared 
quiescent  and  was  not  considered  —  and  Julia,  with  the  memory  of 
those  ten  hard  years  eating  into  her  soul,  was  now  only  too  glad  to 
return  to  Ohio. 

As  Benson  had  desired  it,  the  pair  came  direct  to  him.  He  was 
rather  dubious  as  to  what  the  outcome  would  be,  and  when  he  met 
them  at  the  station  one  cold  November  afternoon,  he  owned  sadly  to 
himself  that  the  general's  appearance  was  not  calculated  to  inspire 
one  with  confidence. 

After  dinner  Mrs.  Pope  and  Julia  retired  to  the  drawing-room, 
leaving  the  two  men  to  their  cigars.  It  was  then  that  Gibbs  grew  con- 
fidential, he  had  been  merely  garrulous  before. 

"This  was  right  handsome  of  you,  Jake,"  he  said  feelingly.  "But 
that  letter  of  Julia's  was  her  own  inspiration.  I  didn't  know  about  it 
until  she  had  yours  in  reply;  I  guess  she  wanted  to  spare  me  if  you 
said  no.  Now  how  are  you  going  to  use  me  r  I  want  to  be  useful.  Put 
me  to  work,  Jake;  no  matter  what  it  is,  I'm  your  man!"  He  stepped 
jauntily  to  the  fireplace,  and  spreading  his  legs  far  apart,  entrenched 
himself  on  the  hearth  rug. 

The  lawyer  watched  him  over  the  tip  of  his  cigar.  He  saw  that  in 
spite  of  the  gay  show  of  spirit,  his  hands  twitched,  that  his  puffy  face 
was  scarlet,  while  what  hair  time  had  left  him  was  snow  white.  He 
had  aged,  too,  in  those  years,  so  that  Benson  would  scarce  have 
known  him.  Yet  Julia  had  done  what  she  could  for  him.  His  clothes 
were  new,  his  linen  fresh,  and  the  lawyer  correctly  surmised  that  he 
had  himself  met  the  cost  of  this  excellent  outfit.  It  was  a  long  glance 
back  to  Gibbs  of  the  True  Wbig;  florid,  good-looking,  good-nat- 
ured, aggressive  Nathan  Gibbs,  who  had  made  love  to  Levi  Tucker's 
wife,  under  Levi  Tucker's  very  nose,  in  Levi  Tucker's  own  Red  Brick 
Tavern  on  the  square.  He  had  not  withheld  his  hand;  he  had  taken 
ruthlessly  what  he  had  desired  —  Tucker's  wife,  Tucker's  life,  and 
he  had  spent  Tucker's  fortune. 

Benson's  lips  parted  in  a  slight  smile.  If  ever  a  man  had  gone 
swiftly  to  his  desires,  Gibbs  was  that  man.  Chance  had  been  more 
than  generous  —  as  generous  as  it  had  been  to  him  —  the  smile  left 
his  lips.  He  frowned;  surely  he  had  nothing  in  common  with  Gibbs  — 
no  analogy  was  possible! 


CHAPTER  FORTY-TWO  371 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  for  me,  Jake?"  insisted  Gibbs.  An 
inner  sense  of  things  told  him  that  he  must  have  at  least  a  semblance 
of  occupation,  that  idleness  would  be  his  ruin.  "Make  a  place  for  me 
somewhere,  Jake,  I  don't  care  what  it  is,"  he  pleaded.  "Give  me 
something  that  will  keep  me  busy."  He  was  silent  for  a  minute  and 
puffed  greedily  at  his  cigar,  with  coarse  protruding  lips.  "I  been 
brought  down  to  hell,  Jake,  I've  seen  the  sides  of  the  pit."  He  said 
at  last.  "I  never  could  do  anything  after  Grant  City  busted.  You 
can't  see  where  it  was  now.  I  been  away  from  there  for  seven  or  eight 
years,  in  Kansas  City  and  back  in  St.  Louis,  but  I  never  got  a  grip 
on  things;  and  when  I  began  to  hear  people  talking  about  old  Gibbs, 
I  got  the  notion  that  I  was  counted  past  my  prime.  Well,  I  couldn't 
pull  up;  a  man's  luck  and  a  man's  habits  generally  travel  in  company 
when  he's  sixty  odd.  But  you've  put  stiffening  in  my  backbone.  My 
Julia  will  have  no  cause  to  complain  from  now  on.  A  woman  of  re- 
markable force  of  character,  Jake  —  you'll  recognize  that  when  you 
come  to  know  her  better.  Now  how  are  you  going  to  use  me  ?  We  ain't 
settled  that  yet." 

"I  don't  know  yet;  I  can't  tell,"  said  Benson  slowly. 

Gibbs's  face  clouded. 

"Look  here,  Jake,  don't  you  take  up  with  any  snap  judgment 
that  I'm  past  my  usefulness;  just  give  me  a  chance.  Because  a  man's 
no  longer  of  much  account  to  himself,  it  don't  necessarily  follow  that 
he's  no  good  to  any  one  else." 

Yet  when  Benson  found  work  for  him  in  his  office,  where  Gibbs 
made  himself  useful  in  the  collecting  of  rents,  the  overlooking  of 
repairs,  and  the  drawing  up  of  leases,  this  meekness  of  his  changed 
somewhat.  While  Benson  was  able  for  the  most  part  to  keep  him 
within  reasonable  bounds,  there  were  periods  when  he  relapsed; 
when  he  swiftly  sounded  the  depths  of  his  degradation;  and  from 
these  periods  he  emerged  with  much  contrition  and  a  multitude  of 
promises  as  to  his  future  behaviour.  He  accepted  Benson's  severity, 
which  was  often  bitter  and  unsparing,  with  wonderful  gentleness, 
acquiescing  in  all  the  hard  things  Benson  found  to  say  of  him. 

"I  don't  defend  myself,  Jake,"  in  a  tone  of  miserable  despondency. 
"Ain't  it  just  hell,  the  beast  a  man  will  make  of  himself;  and  an  old 
man  like  me  who  ought  to  have  some  pride  to  keep  him  up!  It  ain't  as 
if  I'd  been  bred  to  the  gutter.  If  I  do  say  it,  I  been  something  of  a  man 
in  my  day.  I've  worn  Uncle  Sam's  uniform  and  I've  carried  his  com- 
mission, but  here  I  am  making  a  spectacle  of  myself  for  people  to 


372  THE  LANDRAYS 

point  at.  You  can't  trust  me,  and  I  can't  trust  myself —  I  wonder  I 
don't  end  it;  but  it's  harder  on  Julia,  Jake  —  I  pity  myself,  but  I 
pity  her  more;"  and  his  bloodshot  eyes  would  fill  with  ready  tears. 

He  was  not  an  agreeable  sight  at  su^ch  times,  but  the  next  day  he 
would  be  himself  again;  the  man  of  the  world;  the  man  who  had 
mingled  in  large  affairs,  and  to  whom  other  men  had  deferred  and 
conceded,  paying  court;  and  he  was  ready  to  criticise  his  patron's 
business  methods,  his  exactness  in  matters  of  detail;  inferring  plainly 
that  his  own  methods  had  been  suited  to  bigger  things,  bigger  stakes, 
and  a  wider  outlook. 

Benson's  attitude  was  one  of  mingled  tyranny  and  kindness.  For 
days  together  he  limited  his  intercourse  with  the  general  to  sharp 
commands,  indicating  unmistakably  that  he  preferred  to  see  just 
as  little  of  him  as  possible;  butGibbs  always  met  his  severity  with  an 
air  of  large  and  genial  tolerance.  Again  Benson's  mood  would  be  one 
of  studied  consideration  and  friendship,  when  he  would  seem  to 
invite  the  intimacy  Gibbs  was  always  anxious  to  thrust  upon  him. 
To  Gibbs's  expansive  temperament,  affection  was  as  much  a  part  of 
his  life  as  the  air  he  breathed;  and  since  he  could  no  longer  glorify 
himself,  he  ended  by  glorifying  the  friend  who  had  shouldered  his 
burdens  for  him.  He  showed  a  tactful  consideration  for  Benson's 
habits  and  prejudices,  he  was  tirelessly  useful,  he  dealt  in  pleasant 
flatteries,  and  he  boasted  privately  to  his  Julia  that  he  could  wind 
Jake  Benson  around  his  little  finger. 

In  the  very  first  stages  of  their  relation  Benson  had  merely  toler- 
ated the  shabby  old  man;  he  rebelled  against  the  anxiety  he  always 
felt  when  Gibbs  was  not  promptly  at  the  office  each  morning,  and 
there  were  times  when  he  would  have  been  glad  to  be  rid  of  him  on 
any  terms;  but  in  the  end  he  succumbed  to  Gibbs.  There  was  no  re- 
sisting him.  He  had  lived  alone  all  his  life,  and  the  general's  willing- 
ness to  fit  into  his  rather  empty  existence,  to  be  silent  or  talkative  as 
his  mood  was,  to  share  his  feelings  and  adopt  his  point  of  view,  made 
him  more  dependent  than  he  realized;  but  above  all  he  felt  the  glow 
of  Gibbs's  affection,  and  understood  that  it  was  as  sincere  as  any 
emotion  he  had  ever  known,  as  sincere  in  its  way  as  his  love  for 
himself. 

From  seeing  him  only  at  the  office,  and  limiting  their  intercourse 
largely  to  matters  of  business,  he  came  by  degrees  to  depend  more 
and  more  upon  him  for  society.  Day  after  day  he  took  him  home 
to  dine  with  him;  and  this  intimacy,  as  it  strengthened,  was  the  very 


CHAPTER  FORTY-TWO  373 

breath  oflife  to  Gibbs.  The  luxury  of  Benson's  well-appointed  house 
and  table,  the  rich  wines  he  was  allowed  to  use  in  moderation, 
these,  to  his  pagan  soul  were  the  very  end  and  aim  of  existence.  At 
the  office,  where  only  petty  concerns  were  entrusted  to  him,  he  was 
on  the  whole  unobtrusive  enough;  but  in  Benson's  house,  the  great 
man's  chosen  guest  and  boon  companion,  he  relaxed  and  was  at 
home,  too. 


CHAPTER  FORTY-THREE 

STEPHEN  had  not  been  able  to  believe  in  the  reality  of  his 
home  going  until  he  was  settled  in  the  cab  that  bore  him 
swiftly  across  the  city.  He  had  made  so  many  trips  into  New 
York,  that  his  journey  of  the  night  before  had  not  been  at  all  con- 
vincing; but  the  squat  ferry-house  which  he  now  approached  from  a 
tangle  of  crowded  streets  was  new  to  him,  and  with  the  salt  breeze 
blowing  full  in  his  face,  and  the  Jersey  river-front  brilliant  in  the  sun- 
light beyond,  he  could  feel  that  he  was  really  going  home,  that  his 
college  days  were  over,  and  belonged  to  a  phase  of  his  experience 
that  he  had  definitely  put  behind  him. 

As  he  hurried  aboard  the  ferry,  trim,  well  built,  and  more  than 
commonly  blessed  in  the  way  of  good  looks,  he  was  jostled  by  a 
young  fellow  carrying  a  large  yellow  leather  satchel,  conspicuously 
new,  who  turned  with  a  muttered  apology;  and  Stephen  saw  a  tanned 
face,  the  lips  partly  concealed  by  a  small  moustache  several  shades 
darker  than  the  shock  of  bushy  red  hair  inclined  to  curl,  that 
almost  reached  the  low  turned-down  linen  collar  he  wore.  There 
was  something  oddly  familiar  in  the  face,  which  without  being  in 
any  way  handsome,  was  not  unattractive.  It  might  have  been  merely 
some  trick  of  expression,  but  while  Stephen  was  struggling  vainly  to 
remember  where  they  could  have  met  before,  the  crowd  separated 
them.  Yet  later  when  he  took  his  place  in  the  line  that  had  formed  at 
the  gate,  the  yellow  satchel  was  just  ahead  of  him. 

He  followed  it  down  the  long  platform,  and  when  he  went  aboard 
his  car,  he  found  it  on  one  of  the  seats  of  the  section  he  was  to  occupy. 
He  settled  himself  with  his  newspaper  and  was  absorbed  in  its  per- 
usal, when  the  owner  of  the  satchel  emerged  from  the  smoking  com- 
partment at  the  other  end  of  the  car.  Stockily  built  and  very  muscu- 
lar, he  came  swinging  down  the  aisle  to  drop  loosely  into  the  seat 
opposite  him. 

Stephen  glanced  over  the  top  of  his  paper  and  caught  his  eye, 

374 


CHAPTER   FORTY-THREE  375 

shrewd,  inquiring,  with  the  least  suggestion  of  a  squint,  fixed  upon 
him.  His  first  feeling  was  still  so  strong,  that  he  was  impelled  to  say, 
putting  aside  his  paper: 

I  beg  your  pardon,  but  haven't  I  met  you  somewhere  before?" 
'No,  sir,  I  guess  not,"  rejoined  the  stranger,  and  his  clear  blue 
eye  narrowed. 

"Probably  I  was  mistaken  after  all,"  said  Stephen  apologetically. 
He  would  have  stopped  with  this,  but  the  other  now  asked  abruptly. 
"You  ever  been  West,  my  friend  ?" 
"What  do  you  call  the  West  ?" 

"Well,  not  Jersey;"  and  he  grinned,  and  jerked  his  thumb  in  the 
direction  of  the  flat  landscape  beyond  the  car-window.  "Say  Colo- 
rado." 

Stephen  shook  his  head.  The  other  slid  deeper  into  his  seat  and 
extended  his  legs.  He  was  apparently  grateful  for  the  opportunity 
Stephen  had  given  him  for  speech. 

"Give  me  Denver  or  Kansas  City;  those  are  what  I  call  towns, 
and  Omaha's  a  right  bustling  little  burg,  too;  but  I'm  coming  back 
here  when  I  make  a  million.  It  ain't  in  my  class  now;  it's  no  place 
for  yearlings." 

Then  he  became  communicative.  Colorado  was  his  State;  he  was 
in  cattle;  he  had  been  in  mines,  but  cattle  suited  him  better,  and  he 
had  been  lucky.  This  luck  of  his  was  evidently  such  a  recent  matter 
that  it  was  plain  to  Stephen  he  had  not  yet  fully  accustomed  himself 
to  it. 

"You  fooled  me,  too,  for  a  fact.  I  had  the  same  notion  you  had," 
he  said,  suddenly  renewing  the  conversation  which  after  a  little  time 
they  had  permitted  to  lapse. 

"What  notion  was  that  ?"  asked  Stephen  pleasantly. 
"Why  the  notion  that  we'd  met  somewhere.  These  resemblances 
are  mighty  curious;  ain't  they  ?  You  look  like  a  fellow  I've  seen,  but 
to  save  my  life  I  can't  say  where." 

There  was  another  pause.  He  stared  at  Stephen,  and  Stephen 
stared  back  with  a  puzzled  expression  on  his  face. 

"Did  you  say  you  were  going  through  to  Chicago?"  the  young 
fellow  asked. 

"No,  no  further  than  Ohio.  The  central  part  of  the  State,  to  a 
place  —  "  suddenly  it  flashed  upon  Stephen  who  he  was.  He  leaned 
forward  and  smilingly  held  out  his  hand.  "Why,  you're  Reddy!"  he 
exclaimed. 


376  THE  LANDRAYS 

The  other  started.  He  shot  Stephen  a  quick  glance. 

"You're  dead  sure  about  that,  my  friend  ?"  he  demanded.  "You 
ain't  just  chancing  it  on  the  colour  of  my  hair  ?" 

"Yes,  I  am  dead  sure.  Don't  you  remember  me  ?  I'm  Stephen  — 
Stephen  Landray," 

"Well,  of  course!  I'd  been  almost  willing  to  bet  money  I  knew 
you!"  cried  Reddy.  "But  I  wasn't  looking  to  meet  you  here.  Say, 
where  you  going  anyhow?"  and  he  wrung  the  hand  Stephen  had 
extended,  with  visible  feeling. 

"I  am  going  home  —  home  to  Benson.  I  have  not  been  back  in 
twelve  years." 

"What  you  been  doing  anyhow,  in  business  somewhere?" 

"No,  college,"  said  Stephen. 

"Well,  you  took  your  time  to  it,"  commented  Reddy,  in  quite  evi- 
dent surprise. 

"I  am  afraid  I  did,"  and  Stephen  laughed  He  was  aware  that  he 
had  not  distinguished  himself.  "But  of  course  you  have  been  back  ?" 
he  added. 

"Oh,  yes,  once,  to  see  the  old  lady.  I  expect  I  was  a  good  deal  of 
bother  before  I  got  sense;  but  I'm  going  to  make  it  up  to  her  right 
here  and  now."  He  kicked  the  yellow  satchel,  which  he  had  displaced 
when  he  took  his  seat.  "I  got  it  full  of  truck  for  her.  I  tell  you,  Lan- 
dray, I've  had  my  eyes  opened.  There's  a  girl  —  "  he  blushed  under 
his  tan  —  "she  made  me  feel  cheap,  the  way  I'd  always  acted; 
never  thinking  much  of  any  one  but  myself.  She's  got  me  committed 
to  a  programme  that'll  astonish  the  old  lady.  I'm  going  to  give  her  the 
time  of  her  life  regardless  of  expense."  He  slapped  his  knees,  and 
laughed  aloud.  "She"  —  Stephen  understood  that  he  was  speaking 
of  the  young  lady  who  had  been  the  instrument  of  his  regeneration  — 
"went  for  me  so  my  eyes  stuck  out.  I  expect  you  could  have  snared 
'em  off  with  inch  rope  —  but  I  was  a  made  man,  my  friend,  when 
she  got  through  with  me.  I  saw  a  whole  heap  of  things  as  plain  as 
day,  and  I'm  going  to  blow  myself  in  making  it  up  to  the  old  lady. 
I'm  going  to  take  her  to  Colorado  with  me." 

"When  were  you  at  Benson  last,  Reddy?"  asked  Stephen. 

"Let  me  see  —  about  three  years  ago.  I  did  the  wild  West  for  'em. 
Say,  Landray,  I  was  an  awful  chump;  I  was  the  cowboy  every  min- 
ute, and  don't  you  forget  it;  wore  a  sombrero  and  all  that  sort  of  rot- 
ten nonsense;  but  this  trip  —  well,  that  girl  said  it  would  have  to  be 
a  derby,  and  what  she  says,  goes  here.  It's  got  to,  my  friend,  for  you 


CHAPTER   FORTY-THREE  377 

see  she's  been  to  Vassar,  and  knows  lot  a  more  than  I  ever  ex- 
pect to." 

Stephen  laughed. 

"Well,  Reddy,  her  instruction  don't  seem  to  have  been  wasted  on 
you." 

"  I  hope  it  ain't,  for  I  want  to  get  next  the  right  thing.  I'll  take  a 
hunch  off  most  any  one,  and  say  thank  you  for  it." 

"What's  become  of  Benjamin  Wade,  and  Spike  ?"  asked  Stephen. 

"Well,  I  guess  no  one  knows  anything  about  Spike.  You  see  his 
folks  moved  away  from  Benson  years  ago;  but  Wade's  there  yet, 
he's  a  lawyer.  You'll  like  him,  Landray,  every  one's  got  a  good  word 
for  Ben." 

Then  Reddy  began  to  question  Stephen,  and  after  he  had  made 
himself  familiar  with  the  salient  points  in  his  career,  he  spoke  of 
himself  more  freely  than  he  had  yet  done,  and  incidentally  told  many 
strange  tales  of  the  West.  But  to  Stephen  the  strangest  of  all  was  the 
story  of  his  luck.  He  had  gone  to  Colorado  with  a  cattle  dealer  the 
year  after  Stephen  left  Benson;  in  short,  he  fulfilled  his  early  promise, 
and  ran  away.  He  had  helped  the  cattle  dealer  West  with  a  load  of 
registered  stock,  and  had  reached  Denver  with  only  the  few  dollars 
saved  from  his  wages,  in  his  pocket.  From  there,  he  had  drifted  into 
the  Black  Hills,  where  after  years  of  varying  fortune  he  struck  it  rich 
in  a  modest  way,  and  had  found  himself  possessed  of  the  sum  of  ten 
thousand  dollars.  This  he  had  put  in  cattle,  and  had  prospered 
exceedingly.  But  this  was  not  all  —  there  was  a  girl;  the  same  girl 
who  had  pointed  out  to  him  his  duty  in  the  case  of  his  mother;  her 
name  was  Margaret  Rogers,  and  to  her,  Reddy  had  given  his  soul. 

"I  wish  you  could  know  her,  Landray,"  he  said.  "Maybe  you 
think  it's  against  her  that  it's  settled  between  us;  that's  about  how 
I'd  look  at  it,  for  I  can't  see  what  she  finds  in  a  proposition  like  me  to 
tie  up  to.  It  ain't  that  I've  made  my  little  pile,  for  Colonel  Rogers 
is  worth  a  cool  million." 

It  was  plain  to  Stephen  that  Reddy  had  drunk  deep  of  the  spirit 
of  the  West.  That  night  they  sat  in  the  smoker,  under  the  dim  lamps, 
and  talked  until  it  was  almost  day,  and  through  the  next  day;  and 
as  nightfall  came  again,  they  rolled  into  Benson,  with  Reddy  "dry 
tongued  and  plumb  talked  out." 

Here  they  separated.  Reddy  was  keen,  as  he  expressed  it,  to  hit 
the  trial  for  the  old  lady's  shack,  and  Stephen  watched  him  disappear, 
tugging  at  the  yellow  satchel,  heavy  with  his  peace  offering,  the 


378  THE  LANDRAYS 

truck  he  was  taking  to  her;  then  as  the  crowd  thinned  out  from  about 
him,  he  glanced  around.  He  had  more  than  half-expected  that  Ben- 
son would  be  there  to  welcome  him. 

As  he  stared  about  him  for  a  sight  of  the  familiar  figure,  some  one 
touched  him  on  the  arm.  He  turned,  and  saw  a  shabby  old  gentle- 
man, with  a  red  puffy  face  and  a  fringe  of  white  hair  showing 
beneath  the  rim  of  his  dingy  silk  hat. 

"Steve"  —  the  old  man  spoke  in  a  husky  tremor,  as  if  his  emo- 
tions were  about  to  master  him  —  "Steve,  my  dear  boy,  how  are 
you?" 

Landray  owned  to  a  feeling  of  mystification,  but  since  the  stranger 
appeared  on  terms  of  such  intimacy  with  him,  he  gave  him  his  hand. 

""You  don't  know  me  ;  well,  it  was  hardly  to  be  expected  you 
would." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do!"  cried  Stephen  quickly,  a  light  breaking  in  on  him. 
"You  are  General  Gibbs."  But  he  had  pictured  the  general  as  erect, 
grizzled,  of  military  aspect;  hale  and  vigorous,  with  the  righteous 
years  he  had  lived.  This  grossly  fat  old  man,  was  a  distinct  shock; 
the  touch  of  his  clammy  hands,  the  pressure  of  his  tremulous  fingers, 
for  Gibbs  now  held  the  hand  he  had  given  him  in  both  his  own, 
was  almost  repulsive. 

"Surely,  it  ain't  possible  that  you  remember  me,  Steve?"  cried 
Gibbs.  "I  reckon  you  knew  Jake  wouldn't  send  any  one  but  me  to 
meet  you.  Here,  let  me  carry  your  satchel  —  no  ?  Well,  come  this 
way  then  to  the  carriage.  Your  Uncle  Jake  wasn't  feeling  just  himself 
to-night.  Oh,  nothing  serious.  Odd,  though,  ain't  it  —  I'm  a  good  ten 
years  his  senior,  and  I  say  it  without  pride,  Steve,  I've  lived  a  faster 
life  than  he  has,  and  I  don't  know  what  sickness  is.  My  dear  boy,  I'm 
glad  to  see  you,  I've  been  the  friend,  the  intimate  associate,  of 
two  generations  of  Landrays,  and  you're  to  make  the  third;  for  we'll 
keep  up  the  ancient  custom,  trust  me  for  that.  Are  you  quite  com- 
fortable?" 

They  were  seated  in  the  carriage  now. 

"Oh,  quite,"  said  Stephen.  His  first  impression  of  the  general  was 
distinctly  and  unqualifiedly  unfavourable.  Gibbs  was  speaking  again. 

"It's  quite  a  coincidence  that  I  should  meet  you,  Steve;  of  course 
you  don't  remember  it,  but  I  brought  you  here  after  your  poor 
father's  death.  He  was  my  very  dear  friend,  we  were  like  brothers. 
We  had  been  comrades-in-arms,  and  we  were  in  business  together 
almost  up  to  the  time  of  his  death."  Gibbs  was  industriously  swab- 


CHAPTER  FORTY-THREE  379 

bing  his  face  with  his  handkerchief  as  he  spoke.  Stephen  was  silent. 
He  did  not  know  just  how  to  take  this  old  friend  of  his  father's,  the 
wealth  of  whose  emotions  embarrassed  him,  and  he  was  greatly  re- 
lieved when  the  carriage  turned  from  the  paved  street  into  a  gravelled 
drive,  and  he  knew  his  journey's  end  was  reached. 

The  house  door  opened,  and  Benson  appeared  on  the  threshold. 
Stephen  sprang  from  the  carriage  and  ran  quickly  up  the  steps. 
Gibbs  followed  more  slowly,  with  the  coachman  and  the  luggage. 

"  Right  up  to  his  room,  Andrew  —  the  front  room  over  the  li- 
brary," Gibbs  ordered.  He  turned  to  Benson.  "I  suppose  Steve  will 
want  to  go  up-stairs  too,  Jake.  Hadn't  I  better  show  him  the  way  ?'* 

Benson  gave  Stephen  a  quiet  smile. 

"I  am  quite  in  Gibbs's  hands,"  he  said.  "He  has  been  in  consul- 
tation with  the  cook  for  over  a  week,  preparing  the  dinner  we  shall 
sit  down  to  presently." 

"Good  Heavens,  Jake,  I  didn't  want  the  lad  to  starve,"  said  the 
general,  as,  bustling  and  eager,  he  led  the  way  up-stairs.  While 
Stephen  was  busy  removing  the  signs  of  travel  from  his  face  and 
hands,  he  established  himself  in  an  easy-chair  from  which  he  beamed 
affectionately  upon  the  young  fellow. 

"Jake's  in  the  hands  of  his  servants.  They  never  do  anything  for 
him  if  it  puts  them  to  the  least  trouble,  but  they  stand  about  for 
me!  Damn  'em,  I  give  'em  a  taste  of  army'  discipline  now  and  then, 
and  a  good  rousing  cussing  when  I  think  they  need  it.  I  don't  know 
what  he'd  do  if  it  wasn't  for  me,  since  Mrs.  Pope  went  away.  I  reckon 
you  remember  her,  Steve?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

In  the  fuller  light,  Gibbs  seemed  more  unprepossessing  than  ever, 
and  there  was  that  about  him  which  explained  as  fully  as  spoken 
words  could  have  done,  the  cause  and  nature  of  his  dependence  or» 
Benson.  Stephen  saw  in  their  relation,  as  he  now  understood  it,  only 
a  manifestation  of  the  lawyer's  charity  and  goodness. 

It  was  Gibbs  who  kept  the  conversation  alive  during  dinner.  He 
called  upon  Stephen  to  admire  each  course  as  it  was  served,  it 
was  all  his  idea,  he  had  battered  sense  into  their  heads  in  the  kitchen. 
They  slouched  for  Jake,  but  they  knew  a  whole  lot  better  than  to  try 
that  on  him;  he  made  'em  stand  around.  But  presently  this  topic 
was  exhausted.  Stephen  turned  to  Benson. 

"Do  you  remember  a  boy  called  Reddy,  Uncle  Jake,  a  little  fel- 
low I  used  to  play  with  before  I  went  away  to  school  ?"  he  asked. 


380  THE  LANDRAYS 

"Riley  Crittendon,  you  mean,  he  was  back  here  some  years  ago. 
He  is  doing  very  well  in  the  West,"  said  the  lawyer. 

"I  made  the  trip  from  New  York  with  him.  Yes,  he  says  he  is  very 
successful." 

"His  mother  rents  one  of  Jake's  houses  —  nice  little  old  lady  — 
not  so  very  old  either,"  said  Gibbs. 

"He  told  me  about  another  of  my  friends,  Benjamin  Wade," 
said  Stephen.  "Reddy  says  he's  a  lawyer." 

"A  very  clever  one,  too,  which  I  suppose  he  didn't  tell  you,"  said 
Benson. 

"And  a  young  fellow  who  is  going  to  travel  far  and  fast,  if  some  one 
don't  stop  him,"  said  Gibbs  grumpily. 

"Gibbs  don't  like  him  any  too  well,"  said  Benson. 

"Humph!  He  never  courted  my  approval;  I  reckon  he'll  flourish 
like  a  green  bay  tree  without  it.  I  saw  Mrs.  Landray  to-day,  Steve  — 
your  Aunt  Virginia."  added  Gibbs  abruptly.  "I  told  her  you  were 
expected  home.  I  reckon  she'll  look  to  see  you  to-morrow." 

Benson  frowned  slightly  at  this. 

"I  have  a  vivid  recollection  of  Aunt  Virginia,"  said  Stephen. 

"You  ought  to,"  said  Gibbs,  turning  a  sudden  purple.  "I  fetched 
you  here  to  her,  and  you  lived  with  her  for  a  while;  but  you  were 
only  a  little  fellow  then,  Steve.  It  ain't  to  be  wondered  that  your 
memory  don't  travel  back  into  the  past  as  freely  as  mine  does.  She 
was  a  second  mother  to  your  father." 

Stephen  was  less  and  less  disposed  to  like  this  shabby  disreputable 
old  man.  He  wondered  why  it  was  that  Benson  tolerated  him  at  his 
dinner-table,  and  his  wonder  grew  as  the  dinner  progressed;  for 
Gibbs  taking  advantage  of  the  occasion  applied  himself  diligently  to 
the  wine,  and  with  disastrous  results.  As  he  relapsed  from  sobriety, 
his  conversation  became  questionable;  he  was  profane,  and  he  was 
vulgar;  or  in  recalling  the  past,  to  which  he  constantly  reverted,  he 
went  swiftly  from  drunken  sentiment  to  drunken  tears.  At  last  Ben- 
son stretched  out  a  hand  and  took  the  bottle  from  before  him. 

"You've  had  enough,  Gibbs.  We'll  go  into  the  library,"  he  said 
<:oldly. 

"Oh,  come  now,  Jake  —  don't  we  make  a  night  of  it  ?"  expostu- 
lated Gibbs.  But  Benson  merely  pushed  back  his  chair  and  rose 
from  the  table.  Stephen  followed  his  example,  and  the  generai 
scrambled  uncertainly  to  his  feet.  He  took  Stephen  by  the  arm  in  an 
access  of  affection. 


CHAPTER  FORTY-THREE  381 

"He  screws  me  down  most  damnably,  Steve  —  cross  him,  and 
you'll  find  hin  a  tyrant;  he  knows  I  wanted  to  celebrate  your  return 
—  the  return  of  the  native  —  it's  an  event!  Jake  and  I  here  are  self- 
made  men,  but  you  belong  to  the  old  aristocracy.  You  may  not  think 
it,  but  the  West's  had  its  first  families." 

"I  always  supposed  the  Bensohs  were  of  their  number,''  said 
Stephen. 

"The  Bensons!  Shop-keepers,  Steve  —  mere  money  getters;  isn't 
that  so,  Jake  ?" 

"I  fear  it  is,  Gibbs,"  said  Benson  laughing,  as  he  led  the  way 
from  the  room. 

In  the  library  the  general  promptly  fell  asleep  in  his  chair.  The 
lawyer  nodded  toward  him. 

"You'll  find  him  better  than  he  looks,"  he  said. 

"He  seems  devoted  to  you,"  said  Stephen,  at  a  loss  for  anything 
else  to  say  in  his  favour. 

"Yes,  so  he  is."  Benson  was  thoughtful  for  a  moment.  "I  shouldn't 
have  permitted  him  to  get  in  this  condition,"  he  said  with  real  con- 
cern. "It  won't  please  my  cousin,  and  I  owed  it  to  him  to  see  that 
he  did  not.  You  must  be  tired.  I'll  call  Andrew  and  have  him  take 
Gibbs  home." 

The  next  morning  Stephen  was  roused  by  hearing  some  one  knock 
at  his  door.  Thinking  that  it  was  Andrew,  who  in  his  person  seemed 
to  combine  the  functions  of  coachman  and  butler,  he  called  to  him 
to  enter;  but  in  place  of  Andrew,  Gibbs  opened  the  door.  Gibbs, 
sober,  and  with  a  flower  in  his  buttonhole,  a  sprig  of  scarlet  ger- 
anium, and  his  tall  hat  held  gracefully  and  jauntily  over  his  forearm. 

"Good-morning,  Steve!"  he  cried.  "How  did  you  rest,  you 
weren't  expecting  me,  eh  ?"  he  chuckled.  "I  want  to  see  your  Uncle 
Jake.  Think  he's  aged  any?" 

"No,  I  can't  say  that  I  do,  but  you  know  I  saw  him  quite 
recently." 

"So  you  Hid,  when  he  was  East  during  the  winter.  You  are  going 
to  see  your  Aunt  Virginia  the  first  thing;  ain't  you,  Steve  ?" 

Stephen  looked  at  him  sharply.  He  could  not  understand  just  why 
Gibbs  should  be  interested  in  what  he  did. 

"I  suppose  I'll  go  there  some  time  to-day,"  he  said. 

"Go  there  the  first  thing,"  urged  Gibbs.  "He'll  expect  you  to.  If 
you  don't,  he'll  score  it  up  against  you."  He  dropped  his  voice  to  a 
confidential  whisper. 


382  THE  LANDRAYS 

"  He  —  who  ? "  asked  Stephen. 

"Your  Uncle  Jake." 

"He  never  mentions  her." 

"And  never  will,"  said  Gibbs.  "But  that  don't  mean  he  don't 
think  about  her.  You  take  my  advice  and  go  there  the  first  thing.  I 
know  Jake  Benson  better  than  you  do.  He's  an  amiable  mass  of  con- 
tradictions, I  reckon  it's  the  Yankee  in  him." 

"I  thought;  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  thought  always  that  they 
were  not  even  friendly." 

"She  ain't,"  said  Gibbs  significantly,  and  chuckled  again.  "I  ex- 
pect if  she  ever  eases  her  mind  about  him,  you'll  hear  things;  but 
just  let  me  tell  you  this,  he  ain't  going  to  like  it  if  you  are  anyways 
remiss  in  your  duty  to  her.  Humph!  there's  the  bell,  I'll  leave  you 
to  dress." 

When  Stephen  went  down-stairs  he  found  Gibbs  and  Benson  at 
breakfast. 

"I  thought  I'd  come  round  and  see  if  you  had  any  orders,  Jake." 
Gibbs  was  saying  briskly.  "I  didn't  know  that  you'd  want  to  go  to 
the  office  to-day,  there's  no  need  of  it." 

"I'll  go  down  as  usual,  unless  Stephen —  " 

"I  think  I  shall  go  to  my  aunt's  immediately  after  breakfast," 
said  Stephen.  He  had  decided  to  profit  by  Gibbs's  advice  and 
see  what  came  of  it,  but  apparently  nothing  came  of  it,  the  lawyer's 
face  was  quite  expressionless,  he  showed  neither  satisfaction  ncr  dis- 
pleasure, but  it  was  Gibbs  who  offered  to  accompany  Stephen  to 
his  aunt's. 

"No,  sir,"  said  Gibbs,  taking  the  young  man's  arm  as  they  gained 
the  street.  "I  never  been  able  to  understand  Jake's  relation  to  your 
aunt;"  then  with  an  impressive  show  of  confidence,  "I  rather  think, 
though,  that  he's  been  in  love  with  her.  That's  the  only  explanation 
that  offers  itself  to  my  mind.  Years  and  years  ago  I  thought  this,  at 
the  time  he  went  West  to  find  your  grandfather  —  no,  you  never 
heard  about  that,  I'll  tell  you  when  we  have  more  leisure.  Little 
things  your  father  told  me  confirmed  me  in  that  opinion;  but  bless 
you,  there  was  a  time  when  the  Bensons  were  not  counted  much, 
and  the  Landrays  were  everything.  Time's  rather  upset  these  condi- 
tions, but  your  Aunt  Virginia  has  not  forgotten  and  never  will.  I 
reckon  Jake  Benson's  money  never  impressed  her;  but  whatever  his 
personal  feelings  for  her  have  been  or  are,  he  has  the  greatest  respect 
for  her.  He  wouldn't  think  well  of  you  if  you  failed  there  either, 


CHAPTER  FORTY-THREE  383 

though  I  don't  know  that  he'd  be  above  feeling  a  certain  satisfaction 
that  he'd  gotten  the  best  of  her  where  you're  concerned.  You  under- 
stand, that's  merely  one  of  the  contradictions  of  his  nature,  for  at 
heart  Jake's  as  sound  as  a  dollar,  one  of  the  best  and  truest  hearted 
of  men.  He's  been  like  an  elder  brother  to  me,  and  I  love  and  revere 
him;  but  damn  him,  I'm  not  blind  to  his  little  faults.  It  would  be  no 
compliment  to  him  if  I  were  ;  no,  nor  no  kindness  either." 

Arriving  at  the  cottage,  Gibbs  parted  from  Stephen  at  the  gate. 

"You'll  be  making  her  very  happy,  Steve,"  he  said,  as  he  left  the 
young  man. 

A  maid  answered  Stephen's  ring,  and  he  was  shown  into  Vir- 
ginia's small  parlour.  He  had  scarcely  time  to  glance  about  him  when 
Virginia  came  swiftly  into  the  room. 

"Dear  Stephen,  it  was  so  good  of  you  to  come  at  once,"  she  said, 
as  she  advanced  with  outstretched  hands,  and  he  realized  that  for 
some  reason  which  he  did  not  understand,  he  was  much  to  her,  and 
that  he  had  made  her  very  happy,  as  Gibbs  had  said  he  would.  He 
kissed  her  and  led  her  to  a  chair. 

"It  wasn't  fjood  of  me,  for  I  wanted  to  see  you." 

"You  hadn't  forgotten  your  old  aunt?  I  was  almost  afraid." 

"Old!"  he  scofitd.  "Have  you  no  one  to  pay  you  compliments, 
Aunt  Virginia  ? " 

He  had  been  genuinely  surprised.  In  her  way  Virginia  was  as  far 
removed  from  the  commonplace  as  was  Benson  himself;  only,  he 
could  not  have  analysed  it,  her  distinction  was  the  finer,  rarer 
thing.  She  was  younger,  too,  than  he  had  expected  to  find  her;  for 
while  Benson's  appearance  added  years  to  his  actual  age,  she  still 
retained  her  youth  in  an  unusual  degree. 

She  searched  Stephen's  face  with  tender  concern. 

"Am  I  at  all  satisfactory?"  he  laughed. 

"Yes,  you  are  wholly  a  Landray,  Stephen,"  she  said.  "You  look, 
dear,  as  your  father  did  at  your  age.  You  are  older  than  he  was  when 
he  went  to  the  war;  yes,  you  look  as  he  did.  All  the  Landray  men  have 
the  same  look,  and  you  could  never  be  mistaken  for  any  one  but  a 

Landray." 

"Some  day  you  must  tell  me  about  my  father,     he  said  gently, 

entering  into  her  mood.  -i     •  > 

"I  shall,  for  you  must  be  interested  in  your  family,  its  a  duty, 
you're  the  last  Landray.  I  shall  have  a  great  deal  to  tell  you.  1  ou 
are  through  college?" 


384  THE  LANDRAYS 

"Yes,  I  am  home  for  good." 

"What  are  your  plans,  Stephen  ?"  said  Virginia  a  little  anxiously. 
She  wished  he  might  understand  how  uncertain  a  prop  Benson  could 
be;  she  did  not  want  him  to  rely  on  the  lawyer,  but  she  forebore  to 
tell  him  this.  There  might  come  a  time  when  she  could,  but  clearly 
now  was  not  that  time. 

"  I  haven't  any,"  and  Stephen  laughed  easily. 

"But  you  have  selected  a  profession." 

Stephen  looked  at  her  with  dark  puzzled  eyes. 

"No,  my  one  idea  has  been  to  get  through  with  what  I  had  in 
hand  and  come  home." 

"Then  you  do  regard  this  as  home,  Stephen  ?" 

"Most  certainly.  Uncle  Jake  has  kept  that  idea  before  me  —  I  am 
to  make  my  start  here." 

"He  is  quite  right  in  that;  you  belong  in  Benson,  it  is  the  home  of 
your  family." 

"  I  am  trying  to  cultivate  an  intense  local  pride,"  he  assured  her 
smiling,  but  he  was  not  altogether  pleased  at  the  turn  the  conversa- 
tion had  taken.  His  future  was  not  causing  him  any  special  anxiety, 
and  he  was  not  grateful  for  being  reminded  of  it,  it  seemed  unnec- 
essary. 

He  was  relieved  when  the  conversation  was  interrupted  as  it  now 
was  by  the  entrance  of  Mrs.  Walsh's  small  sombre  figure,  for  she  had 
never  laid  aside  the  mourning  she  had  put  on  when  Benson  brought 
them  the  news  of  her  husband's  death.  She  was  not  alone,  there  fol- 
lowed her  into  the  room  a  tall  girl  with  rich  masses  of  dark  brown  hair 
and  dark  hazel  eyes,  which  Stephen  was  aware  lighted  up  charmingly 
with  shy  recognition  the  moment  they  rested  on  him;  they  were  in- 
stantly veiled  by  long  dark  lashes.  Instinct  told  him  that  this  was  Har- 
riett's pink-faced  baby. 

"  I  fear  you  will  have  to  put  me  right,  or  I  shall  blunder  terribly. 
It's  Aunt  Jane,  of  course;"  but  he  looked  beyond  Mrs.  Walsh  to  the 
slight  graceful  figure  of  the  girl. 

"This  is  my  Harriett's  Elinor,"  said  Mrs.  Walsh. 

"We  may  be  a  little  confusing  at  first,  but  there  is  only 
papa  and  mama,  and  my  sister  Clara,"  said  Elinor  as  they  shook 
hands. 

"You  were  the  baby  when  I  was  here  before,"  Stephen  said.  "And 
where  is  Clara  ?" 

"My  sister  is   away  from  home,   but    there  is  some  one   here 


CHAPTER   FORTY-THREE  385 

you  will  want  to  see,  we  were  just  speaking  of  you  —  Ben!"  she 
called. 

"Yes,  Elinor,"  said  a  masculine  voice  from  the  hall,  and  a  tall 
young  fellow,  rather  shabbily  dressed,  but  carrying  himself  with 
smiling  self-confidence,  entered  the  room.  He  was  clean-shaven,  and 
the  outline  of  his  shapely  head  was  accented  by  his  closely  cropped 
black  hair;  his  nose  was  long  and  prominent,  his  eyes  black  like  his 
hair-,  when  he  smiled,  and  he  was  smiling  now,  he  disclosed  two  rows 
of  white  even  teeth.  His  attitude  toward  Stephen  from  the  first  mo- 
ment of  their  meeting  was  that  of  an  old  friend. 

"It's  awfully  good  to  see  you,  Landray,"  he  said. 

"And  it's  good  to  see  you,  Benjamin  Wade,"  said  Stephen  laugh- 
ing. There  was  something  about  the  young  fellow  which  made  his 
surname  oddly  unsuited  to  him. 

"I  haven't  been  called  that  in  years,  not  since  I  outgrew  corporal 
punishment,  how  many  years  ago  it  seems!  I've  seen  Reddy,  he 
hunted  me  up  first  thing  this  morning,  and  he  told  me  you  were 
home.  I  suppose  you  are  going  to  stay  with  us  ?" 

"Oh,  yes.  They  tell  me  you  are  a  lawyer,  Ben." 

Wade  waved  a  hand  deprecatingly  at  this. 

"A  weak  limb  of  the  law,  Landray,  and  only  just  beginning  to 
make  trouble  for  my  neighbours.  Your  aunt  here  was  one  of  my  first 
clients;  and  for  a  longer  time  than  I  care  to  tell,  she  enjoyed  the 
proud  distinction  of  being  my  only  client." 

"When  you're  famous,  Ben,  just  think  —  that  will  be  something 
for  Aunt  Virginia  to  boast  of,"  said  Elinor. 

Ben  turned  toward  her,  and  Stephen  thought  he  detected  a  care- 
worn look  in  his  eyes.  He  smiled,  but  only  with  his  lips,  as  he  an- 
swered : 

"Pray  heaven,  it  won't  be  too  long  a  time  in  coming,  my  dear 

girl!"    ' 

Somehow  Stephen  instantly  resented  their  intimacy. 


CHAPTER  FORTY-FOUR 

REDDY  took  his  mother  West.  It  was  a  journey  that  he 
conducted  with  much  ostentatious  display,  but  the  oppor- 
tunities in  this  respect  were  far  less  extended  than  he  could 
have  wished.  It  was  only  when  they  were  West  of  Chicago,  however, 
that  he  felt  perfectly  at  home;  for  out  of  Chicago  the  sleeper  was 
crowded  with  men  who  talked  tirelessly  of  cattle  and  mines,  and 
who  told  how  much  they  were  worth,  or  any  other  little  personal 
matter  that  might  be  accounted  of  general  public  interest,  with  simple 
candour  and  without  shame.  In  their  presence  Reddy  parted  with 
the  last  vestige  of  suspicion  that  the  conservative  East  had  bred  in 
him. 

"These  are  the  people!"  he  thought. 

Mrs.  Crittendon,  a  mild  little  woman  who  had  not  yet  recovered 
from  the  shock  of  Reddy 's  reformation,  and  who  regarded  that  re- 
deemed young  man  with  wordless  awe,  since  it  was  all  really  too 
good  to  be  true,  bore  him  company  with  much  inward  trepidation. 
She  was  small  and  placid,  with  smooth  grey  hair  neatly  parted  and 
plainly  drawn  back  of  her  ears;  she  was  not  only  small  and  slight, 
she  was  trim  and  graceful  as  well,  with  a  youthful  walk  and  sprightly 
carriage.  The  top  of  the  small  tight-fitting  black  bonnet  that  framed 
her  face  came  just  on  a  level  with  Reddy 's  broad  shoulders.  All  her 
life  had  been  spent  in  Benson,  she  had  never  been  fifty  miles  away 
from  there  before;  and  she  was  the  victim  of  a  depressing  fear  that 
Reddy  had  made  some  fatal  mistake  in  the  train,  and  that  they  were 
speeding  recklessly  in  the  wrong  direction;  a  circumstance  it  was 
impossible  for  her  to  conceive  <xmld  end  otherwise  than  tragically. 
Indeed  the  flippancy  with  which  her  son  bought  tickets  and  changed 
cars  impressed  her  as  bordering  on  a  suicidal  folly.  Afterward  she 
always  said  it  was  a  mercy  they  reached  the  ranch;  but  Reddy  never 
understood  what  she  meant  by  this,  and  she  never  enlightened  him. 

But  reach  the  ranch  they  did  —  a  trifling  matter  of  forty  miles 

386 


CHAPTER  FORTY-FOUR  387 

from  Carson,  the  nearest  point  on  the  railway  —  and  in  a  cloud  of 
dust,  and  behind  a  span  of  half-broken  colts  that  were  the  apple  of 
Reddy's  eye.  Here  she  began  to  adjust  herself  to  the  wide  horizon,  to 
the  barrenness  of  the  grey  rolling  plains,  the  distant  fringe  of  moun- 
tain peaks. 

Strangely  enough  she  was  not  lonely;  she  hardly  missed  the  gos- 
siping friends  she  had  parted  from  at  Benson;  she  had  Reddy,  and 
there  was  the  ranch  foreman  and  the  ranch  foreman's  wife  who 
cooked  for  the  boys,  and  the  boys  themselves,  who  spent  their  days 
either  in  idleness  or  on  horseback.  They  had  neighbours,  too,  whose 
ranches  dotted  a  strip  of  territory  that  stretched  away  to  the  south  a 
hundred  miles,  and  to  the  north  another  hundred.  With  these,  she 
discovered,  Reddy  maintained  a  sparse  but  cordial  intimacy;  many 
of  them  he  saw  as  often  as  two  or  three  times  a  year,  but  this  was  not 
true  of  all;  there  was  Colonel  Rogers,  whose  comfortable  ranch  house 
was  distant  a  hard  day's  ride,  and  whose  powerful  patronage  gave 
Reddy  a  position  in  that  region  he  could  not  otherwise  have  had. 

In  due  time  the  colonel  and  his  wife  drove  over  in  a  light  buck- 
board  for  a  stay  of  several  days  with  Reddy  and  his  mother,  and 
while  the  ladies  sat  in  the  ranch  parlour,  which  Reddy  had  fur- 
nished in  hot  and  stuffy  red  plush,  and  exchanged  confidences  or 
gossiped;  the  two  men,  in  their  shirt-sleeves,  sat  on  the  top  rail  of 
the  corral  fence  for  the  most  part,  smoked  pipes,  and  talked  cattle. 

The  colonel  was  a  tall  grizzled  man,  with  a  gentle  kindly  manner; 
no  one  would  have  supposed  him  a  millionaire  and  a  man  of  deter- 
mined but  quiet  force  of  character,  while  Mrs.  Rogers  was  a  moth- 
erly woman,  whose  faith  in  the  colonel  —  she  always  gave  him  this 
military  title  —  had  never  experienced  any  shocks;  and  her  reminis- 
cences of  the  early  days  when  as  a  young  bride  he  had  brought  her 
into  the  country,  impressed  Mrs.  Crittendon  with  a  profound  sense 
of  that  mild-mannered  gentleman's  capabilities.  She  was  glad  Reddy 
had  such  a  friend. 

But  what  impressed  her  most  was  that  while  they  were  on  such 
intimate  terms  with  her  son,  and  though  he  was  going  to  marry  their 
daughter,  they  yet  apparently  knew  nothing  of  him  beyond  such 
limited  confidences  as  he  had  chosen  to  indulge  in;  indeed  Reddy's 
standing  in  the  community  seemed  to  be  a  strictly  personal  matter, 
and  it  belonged  to  the  present  absolutely.  He  had  come  into  the 
country,  a  stranger  with  a  bunch  of  cattle,  he  had  proven  himself  an 
excellent  neighbour,  and  above  all  he  had  not  shown  any  desire  to 


388  THE  LANDRAYS 

put  his  brand  on  cattle  he  had  not  paid  for.  She  discovered  that 
beyond  the  fact  that  Reddy  originally  came  from  Ohio,  nothing  was 
known  of  his  antecedents.  This  discovery  she  made  one  day  at  din- 
ner, and  she  proceeded  to  enlighten  their  guests;  since  to  her,  Reddy 
belonged  as  much  to  Benson  as  did  the  soldiers'  monument  on  the 
square.   She  was  well  into  the  family  history  when  the  colonel,  who 
had  been  placidly  listening,  suddenly  put  aside  his  knife  and  fork. 
,      "What  was  that  you  said  about  a  town  called  Benson  ?"  he  asked. 
£      Mrs.  Crittendon  had  merely  said  that  Reddy  had  been  born  in 
*  Benson  —  she  had  given  the  year,  the  day  of  the  month,  and  hour 
of  his  birth. 

"Your  home!"  cried  Rogers,  and  he  gave  his  wife  a  glance.  "Well, 
that  beats  me.  Benson  —  Benson,  Ohio  —  they  fit  together;  you'd 
hardly  believe  it,  ma'am,  that  for  forty  years  I  been  wondering  off 
and  on  where  Benson  was.  I  reckon  I  could  have  found  out  easy 
enough,  but  I  never  did;  and  I  had  pretty  good  reasons  for  wanting 
to  know,  too.  Benson,  Ohio  —  that's  what  he  told  me,"  he  mused 
in  silence  for  a  moment,  running  his  fingers  through  his  grizzled 
beard. 

"What  do  you  want  to  know  about  Benson  ?"  asked  Reddy.  "I 
guess  I  could  have  told  you." 

" Never  heard  you  mention  it,  Riley,"  said  the  colonel.  "And, 
well,  I  reckon  you  never  heard  me  mention  it  either,  but  my  folks 
were  Benson  folks,  too."  He  turned  to  Mrs.  Crittendon.  "How  long 
did  you  live  in  Benson,  ma'am.  ?" 

"Always,  I  was  born  and  reared  there." 

"Were  you  though  —  well,  well!  I  wonder  if  you  ever  heard  any- 
thing of  a  party  that  started  West  from  there  some  time  along  about 
'49,  as  I  reckon  it  ? " 

"The  Landrays  went,"  said  Mrs.  Crittendon  promptly. 

"Landray —  that's  the  name!  Landray — I  ain't  forgotten  that. 
Now,  hold  on  again,  there  was  Landray  and  his  brother,  and  a 
man  by  the  name  of  Walsh,  a  youngish  fellow  as  I  remember  him, 
and  an  oldish  grey-whiskered  man  named  —  Bingham." 

"  He  was  my  father's  cousin,"  said  Mrs.  Crittendon. 

"Was  he,  ma'am  ?  Well,  I  declare!  And  there  was  my  father,  of 
tourse,  and  myself.  I  always  wished  I  could  meet  some  one  who 
•could  tell  me  something  about  him." 

"  I  have  always  heard  it  was  a  Rogers  who  brought  the  first  news 
about  the  finding  of  gold  in  California,"  said  Mrs.  CrittendoD. 


CHAPTER   FORTY-FOUR  389 

"That  must  have  been  my  father.  I  reckon  now,  you  never  saw 
him,"  said  the  colonel  with  regret. 
"Not  to  remember  him  if  I  did." 

"Well,  of  course  not,  you  were  too  young.  I  wish  I  could  recall 
more  about  him,  for  I've  always  thought  that  fight  left  things  a  sort 
of  blank  with  me.  I  only  remember  what  happened  back  of  it  by  fits 
and  starts.  What  I'd  like  to  know,  though,  is  how  those  folks  in  Ohio 
learned  about  the  outfit  and  what  come  of  it  —  or  did  they  ever 


"Mr.  Benson  went  West  to  find  out.  It's  too  bad  I  don't  know 
more,  but  I've  only  heard  the  older  people  talk  about  it.  Mr. 
Benson  was  the  Landrays  lawyer,  and  people  say  he  was  in 
love  with  Stephen  Landray's  wife." 

"Did  she  marry  him?" 

"No,  she  never  married  again,  nor  Mrs.  Walsh  either.  She  makes 
her  home  with  Mrs.  Landray  mostly,  though  she's  got  a  married 
daughter,  Mrs.  Norton." 

"  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  something  about  the  Landrays,    said  Rogers. 

"Why,  there  is  Mrs.  Landray,  and  Stephen  Landray,  a  young 
fellow  just  out  of  college,"  said  Reddy. 

"Whose  son  is  he,  Riley  ?"  asked  the  colonel. 

"Why  he's  Mrs.  Landray's  nephew,"  said  Reddy. 

"Her  grand-nephew,"  corrected  his  mother.  "He  is  Captain  Lar 

dray's  son." 

"A  soldier  in  the  late  war  ?" 

"Yes." 

Rogers  hit  the  table  sharply  with  his  open  hand. 

"  I  swear  then  he's  the  man  I  met  at  Appomattox!  You  ve  seen  hum, 
ma'am,  of  course  ?  What's  become  of  him  ? "  ^ 

"He's  dead;  he  died  years  ago  out  in  Kansas^ 

"And  only  Mrs.  Landray  and  his  son's  left? 

"Yes,  least  I  never  heard  of  any  others  "  ^ 

"  Sort  of  makes  me  feel  like  the  last  leaf  on  the  bough,  the  col- 
onel stroked  his  grey  beard  reflectively.  "This  all  fits  into  what  I 
can  ca  1  up.  You  know  after  the  Indian  fight,  I  was  taken  in  and 
brought  up  by  old  man  Raymond  -  Tom's  father,  Riley  -  you 

.      •       f  T  5  " 

am  t  forgot  1  om  i 

Reddy  shook  his  head.  Rogers  chuckled. 

"It  takes  all  my  influence  to  keep  'em  from  running  Tom  out  of 
the  country;  Tom'll  happen  along  here  some  day,  ma  am,  am 


390  THE  LANDRAYS 

you'll  wonder  why  any  one's  prejudiced  against  Tom."  The  colonel's 
lady  made  as  if  to  interrupt  the  conversation,  but  the  colonel  re- 
strained her  by  a  gesture.  "I  don't  indorse  Tom,  but  his  father  was 
a  mighty  good  friend  to  me  when  friends  were  scarce,  and  that  gives 
Tom  a  sort  of  hold;  I've  kind  of  made  myself  responsible  for  him. 
There  never  was  a  better  man  than  old  Ephriam  Raymond,  Mor- 
mon or  no  Mormon!  He  brought  me  up,  and  gave  me  my  start  in 
life;  I  ain't  forgot  that,  and  I  reckon  I'll  put  up  with  considerable  of 
Tom's  cussedness  yet  for  his  sake." 

He  was  thoughtful  for  a  moment.  Ephriam  Raymond  had  done  all 
that  he  had  said  and  more.  That  he  had  died  while  Rogers  was  still 
in  the  army,  had  always  been  a  matter  of  keen  regret  to  the  latter; 
for  Raymond's  daughter  had  married  years  before,  and  had  gone  to 
the  coast  with  her  husband,  an  apostate  Mormon,  and  there  had 
only  been  Tom  with  him  in  his  last  sickness;  Tom,  who  was  always 
on  the  verge  of  trouble  more  or  less  serious.  The  colonel  thought  of 
all  this,  and  regretted  those  vicissitudes  which  had  left  him  with  a 
vague  and  uncertain  memory  of  his  own  father,  and  had  separated 
him  from  his  best  friend  at  a  time  when  he  might  have  been  of  some 
comfort  to  him. 

He  turned  with  more  questions  to  Mrs.  Crittendon,  but  the  Lan- 
drays  and  the  Benson  and  California  Mining  and  Trading  Company, 
had  long  since  taken  their  place  among  the  traditions  of  the  Ohio 
town.  She  had  the  sentiment  of  the  tragedy  rather  than  the  details. 

"Mr.  Benson  could  tell  you  all  you  want  to  know;  he  must  have 
known  your  father.  He  came  West  and  brought  back  the  news  of  the 
massacre;  he  could  tell  you  all  about  the  company,  just  who  was  in 
it,  and  everything." 

"Well,  maybe  some  day  I'll  write  him." 

"Why  don't  you  do  it  to-night  ?"  suggested  Reddy. 

"There's  no  such  hurry,"  said  the  colonel  hastily.  "Guess  I'll 
wait  until  Margaret  gets  home.  I'll  have  her  write  the  letter  for  me." 

"You  know  you'll  never  write  at  all  if  you  wait;  do  it  now,"  said 
Mrs.  Rogers. 

The  colonel  gave  her  a  pleasant  smile  as  he  pushed  back  his  chair 
and  reached  for  his  pipe. 

"Just  think  of  the  jobs  I've  saved  myself,  mother,  by  putting  them 
off.  Half  the  things  I  make  up  my  mind  to  do,  I  find  by  waiting  ain't 
so  urgent  as  I  supposed  ;  but  I'm  going  to  write  that  letter  the  first 
thing  when  Margaret  gets  back." 


CHAPTER  FORTY-FOUR  39i 

The  next  day  the  colonel  and  Mrs.  Rogers  departed  for  home. 

"Now  bring  your  mother  over  soon,"  urged  Mrs.  Rogers,  as  they 
prepared  to  drive  away.  "Don't  wait  for  Margaret  to  finish  her  visit 
in  Cheyenne."  Reddy  blushed  guiltily.  This  was  exactly  what  he 
intended  doing.  "But  just  come  whenever  you  can." 

The  colonel  added  his  voice  to  hers  as  they  drove  off,  then  he 
lapsed  into  silence  at  her  side,  and  the  silence  endured  for  many 
miles.  He  was  thinking  of  the  conversation  of  the  day  before,  and  he 
was  still  groping  vaguely  among  memories  of  the  past.  At  last  he 
turned  to  his  wife,  and  began  telling  her  of  the  trip  across  the  plains, 
with  the  Landrays  and  his  father.  It  was  a  confused  narrative,  for 
there  seemed  to  be  mingled  with  it  incidents  that  belonged  to  another 
journey  that  had  been  made  under  different  circumstances. 

"Do  you  know,  I'd  like  mightily  to  write  to  Mrs.  Landray,"  he 
said  at  last. 

"Well,  why  don't  you,  colonel  ?" 

"Well,  maybe  I  will  when  Margaret  gets  back." 

It  was  dusk  when  they  reached  home,  and  as  they  drove  up  to  the 
ranch  house  door,  two  men  came  out,  hearing  the  sound  of  wheels, 
and  to  one  of  these  the  colonel  surrendered  his  team.  The  other,  a 
weazened  swarthy  man,  touched  him  on  the  arm  as  he  was  about  to 
enter  the  house. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  turning  back. 

"Tom  Raymond's  here." 

The  colonel  groaned  aloud.  The  speaker  grinned.  He  was  the 
ranch  foreman,  he  had  been  with  the  colonel  many  years  and  he 
knew  almost  as  much  of  Roger's  affairs  as  Rogers  did  himself.  He 
understood  the  nature  of  Raymond's  hold  on  the  colonel,  and  he 
regarded  it  as  a  conspicuous  weakness  on  the  part  of  an  otherwise 
sane  and  rational  man. 

"What's  the  matter?"  demanded  Rogers. 

"He's  in  trouble  again,  I  reckon,"  said  the  foreman. 

"Well,  was  there  ever  a  time  when  he  wasn't  ?"  asked  Rogers  with 
some  show  of  temper. 

"He  wouldn't  come  up  to  the  house,  I  happened  on  him  out  back 
of  the  corrals.  He's  hid  in  the  old  bunk-house  he  wants  to  see  you 
the  worst  kind  of  a  way." 

"Go  tell  my  wife  I've  had  to  go  down  to  the  corrals.  Tell  her  not 
to  wait  for  me,  but  to  eat,"  said  the  colonel. 

The  old  bunk-house  was  a  small  building  of  poles,  now  no  longer 


392  THE  LANDRAYS 

used.  It  was  remote  from  the  house,  and  rarely  visited;  and  towaid  it 
the  colonel  bent  his  steps  in  the  gathering  darkness.  The  bunk-house 
door  was  slightly  ajar,  and  he  pushed  it  open.  The  room  was  appar- 
ently empty,  for  he  heard  no  sound.  He  struck  a  match,  and  in  the 
momentary  brightness  he  saw  a  man  asleep  in  one  of  the  bunks,  a 
gaunt,  loose-minted  man  with  long  grey  locks  that  fell  to  his  shoul- 
ders. He  had  been  sleeping  with  his  head  resting  on  his  arm,  and  the 
light  flashing  full  in  his  face  roused  him,  he  sprang  up  with  a  startled 
exclamation,  and  Rogers  caught  a  sound  which  he  understood 
perfectly. 

"Put  that  up,  Tom,  it's  only  me,"  he  said  composedly. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  Ben,  old  pardner  ?  Didn't  know  who  it  was.  When 
did  you  get  back  ?" 

"I  just  came.  Buck  told  me  you  were  here  and  wanted  to  see  me." 

Tom  had  quitted  the  bunk,  now  he  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  it. 
Rogers  could  just  distinguish  his  head  with  its  thick  unkempt  thatch 
of  grey  hair,  and  his  bulk  of  bone  and  muscle. 

"Well,  Ben,"  he  said  in  a  drawling  voice,  "I  reckon  you're  going 
to  see  the  last  of  me;  I  reckon  I'm  going  to  quit  the  country  this  time. 
I've  stayed  mainly  to  be  near  you,  old  pardner,  but  I'm  clean  crowded 
out  at  last." 

The  colonel  was  quite  unmoved  by  the  other's  sentiment,  he  had 
heard  the  same  thing  before  many  times.  Tom  had  come  into  a  com- 
fortable property  on  his  father's  death;  this  he  had  promptly  squan- 
dered. He  had  gone  from  bad  to  worse  —  guide,  scout,  packer,  and 
lastly  buffalo  hunter,  who  between  debauches  had  done  his  part  in 
the  ruthless  war  of  extermination  which  had  been  waged  against  the 
great  herds  of  the  plain;  but  the  herds  had  disappeared,  and  this 
shiftless  means  of  livelihood  had  gone  with  them.  Sometimes  he 
worked  with  Roger's  forces,  but  most  of  the  time  he  spent  in  and 
about  Carson,  subsisting  by  means  it  was  not  well  to  inquire  too 
closely  into.  He  was  counted  a  dangerous  man,  not  that  he  had  ever 
risen  to  any  very  splendid  villainies,  but  he  was  a  man  that  the  other 
men  shunned  unless  they  were  of  his  own  class. 

"What  is  it,  Tom  ?"  said  Rogers.  "You're  in  trouble,  I  suppose, 
or  you  wouldn't  be  here  hiding." 

"There  was  trouble  in  Carson,"  said  Tom  in  a  meditative  drawl. 
"  Benny,  these  here  cow  towns  is  the  God  forsakenest  places  in  all 
this  God  forsaken  country.  Who'd  a  thought  that  me  at  my  time  of 
life,  when  I've  always  done  what  I  thought  was  right  —  " 


CHAPTER  FORTY-FOUR  393 

The  colonel  moved  impatiently. 
'Get  down  to  business,  Tom,"  he  urged. 

"Well,  say  Benny,  can  you  stake  me  for  a  long  jump  ?  I  reckon  it'll 
be  plumb  to  Texas  this  time." 

"What  have  you  done,  Tom  ?"  asked  Rogers. 

"I've  shot  a  man,  Ben." 

"I  reckoned  so,"  said  the  colonel  in  a  hard  voice. 
'A  man  that  said  I  sold  beef  that  hadn't  'airy  brand  of  mine  on  it. 
Now  that  was  a  hell  of  a  thing  to  say  of  a  man  who's  always  tried  to 
act  right  and  square." 

"Who  was  it?" 

"Which  he  knew  it  was  a  lie,  and  you  know  it  was  a  lie,  Benny.** 

"Who  was  it  ?"  repeated  Rogers. 

"Chesney." 

"Did  you  kill  him?" 

"I  dunno.  Hope  so,"  said  Tom  indifferently.  "I  didn't  wait  to  sec, 
I  just  pushed  out  for  here." 

"And  they'll  be  pushing  after  you." 

"I  reckon  that's  so  all  right,  as  soon  as  they  can  get  together  a 
posse." 

"I  can't  have  them  find  you  here,  Tom,"  said  the  colonel.  "You 
know  there's  a  limit  —  " 

"I  didn't  think  you'd  show  me  your  back!  I've  been  a  good  friend 

to  you,  Ben,  and  if  I  hadn't  been,  father  was.   Can  you  deny  that  — 

•  i >»  •  ' 

no,  sir! 

"He  was  the  best  friend  I  ever  had." 

"I'm  glad  you  ain't  forgot  it,  Ben  Rogers!  He  gave  you  your  start 
—  you've  always  been  mr.n  enough  to  own  that." 

"Don't  you  think  I've  about  squared  that  with  you?"  said  the 
colonel  again  impatiently. 

"I  ain't  here  to  ask  no  favours,  Benny,  you  can  rest  easy  on 
that;  I'm  here  to  make  a  fair  trade." 

"Yes,"  said  Rogers  wearily.  He  was  familiar  with  the  old  buffalo 
hunter's  idea  of  a  fair  trade. 

"You're  seeing  the  last  of  me,  Benny,  you'll  be  clean  shut  of  me 
when  I  hit  the  trail  this  time." 

The  colonel  hoped  so,  though  this  hope  did  not  find  expression  in 
words. 

"I'll  want  a  good  horse,  for  I  played  mine  out  getting  here," 

"Yes,"  said  Rogers. 


394  THE  LANDRAYS 

"And  I  want  money —  but  hold  on  a  minute,  I  got  something  I 
want  to  sell  you,  Ben.  Yes,  sir,  I  am  going  to  make  a  fair  trade;  a 
thousand  dollars." 

"That's  more  than  I  can  lay  my  hands  on  to-night,  Tom,  so  come 
down  to  reason." 

"Well,  five  hundred  then,"  said  Raymond  eagerly. 

"What's  your  trade,  Tom  ?" 

"You  know  when  father  took  you  in  you  gave  him  a  buckskin 
bag  full  of  papers.  Where  do  you  reckon  they  are  now  ? " 

"I  don't  know,  I  never  had  any  more  than  your  word  for  it,  but 
you  always  said  when  I  asked  about  them,  that  they  had  either  been 
lost  or  destroyed,  at  least  they  were  not  among  your  father's  papers 
when  you  came  to  look  them  over,  but  perhaps  you  lied." 

"That's  about  the  size  of  it,  Benny,"  said  Raymond  coolly.  "I 
lied.  I  had  my  own  reasons  for  wanting  to  keep  them  papers  out  of 
your  hands." 

'But  they  were  not  yours!  If  I  had  been  with  your  father  at  the 
time  of  his  death  he  would  have  given  them  to  me." 

"Maybe  he  would,  he  was  mighty  curious  in  them  ways;  but  you 
wa'n't  there,  so  he  did  the  next  best  thing,  he  gave  them  to  me 
instead." 

"To  give  to  me,  I  suppose." 

"That  part  of  it's  plumb  slipped  my  mind.  Anyhow  I  got  the  pa- 
pers." 

"And  you  want  to  sen  tnem  to  me  now  ?" 

"That's  the  idea,  Benny." 

"And  if  I  gave  you  the  money  ?" 

"Five  hundred  dollars,  Benny." 

"You'll  clear  out  of  here  for  Texas  ?" 

"I  bet  I  will,"  said  Raymond  cheerfully. 

"Where  are  the  papers  ?"  questioned  Rogers. 

"I  got  'em  by  me;"  but  he  made  no  move  to  produce  them. 

"I'll  go  to  the  house  and  get  the  money,  and  I'll  have  Buck  get  up 
a  horse  for  you." 

"All  right;"  and  Raymond  stretched  himself  out  in  the  bunk  again. 
He  felt  certain  that  the  posse  would  not  arrive  at  the  ranch  until 
early  in  the  morning,  and  by  then  he  would  have  put  many  miles 
between  it  and  himself. 

He  was  alone  but  a  few  minutes,  and  then  he  was  rejoined  by 
Rogers,  who  carried  a  lantern. 


CHAPTER  FORTY-FOUR  395 

"Did  you  fetch  the  money,  Benny?"  demanded  the  old  buffalo 
hunter  eagerly. 

"Yes,  I  have  it  here.  Now  let  me  see  those  papers." 

Raymond  produced  a  greasy  pocket-book,  and  rescued  from  its 
depths  a  small  flat  parcel  wrapped  in  several  folds  of  oilskin.  He  sur- 
rendered it  to  Rogers,  who  undid  the  parcel  and  satisfied  himself  by 
a  glance  that  the  yellow  papers  he  held  in  his  hand  were  those  for 
which  he  had  bargained.  Raymond  watched  him,  a  toothless  smile 
relaxing  his  lean  jaws. 

"All  right,  Benny?" 

"They  seem  to  be  —  yes." 

"Then  fork  over,  and  I'll  quit  you  here  and  now." 

The  money  Rogers  gave  him  he  hid  about  his  person;  then  he 
gathered  up  his  hat  and  weapons,  and  moved  to  the  door.  Rogers 
followed  him,  and  in  the  shadow  of  the  corral  fence  they  saw  Buck 
holding  a  horse.  Raymond  moved  toward  it  with  alacrity,  and 
swung  himself  into  the  saddle. 

"I  don't  know  as  I  was  so  much  run  out  of  the  country  after  all. 
I  been  wanting  a  change.  Well,  good-bye,  Benny,  take  care  of  your- 
self, old  pardner!  So  long,  Buck!"  and  with  that  he  put  his  horse  to 
an  easy  canter. 

Rogers  watched  him  out  of  sight  with  a  feeling  of  infinite  relief. 
He  had  ceased  to  see  him  long  before  the  clatter  of  his  horse's 
hoofs  died  out  in  the  distance;  but  at  last  there  was  neither  sight  nor 
sound  of  him.  The  colonel  turned  to  Buck. 

"I  guess  if  any  one  asks  about  him,  Buck,  he  ain't  been  here  — 
just  bear  that  in  mind." 

"Do  you  think  he'll  get  away  all  right?"  asked  Buck. 

"Oh,  I  reckon  he  will.  I  find  I'm  sort  of  counting  on  his  doing  it. 
Perhaps  I  shouldn't,  but  I  am  —  Hullo!  What's  that?"  for  his  ear 
had  caught  the  sound  of  a  rapidly  ridden  horse,  but  coming  in  the 
opposite  direction  from  that  Raymond  had  just  taken.  Buck  heard  it, 

too. 

"Tom  hit  the  trail  none  too  soon,"  he  said.  "His  luck  always  was 
the  damndest,"  by  which  he  meant  that  rt  far  exceeded  his  deserts. 

"I  can  only  make  out  one  horse,"  said  Rogers  at  last.  "It  ain't  the 
posse.  We'll  just  walk  up  toward  the  house;"  and  they  had  scarcely 
reached  it  when  the  horseman  galloped  up  and  drew  rein. 

"Who's  that?"  called  Rogers. 

"It's  me  —  Crittendon,  colonel,"  said  the  horseman. 


396  THE  LANDRAYS 

"What's  the  matter,  Riley?"  his  voice  showed  that  he  was  im- 
mensely relieved.  "Get  down.  Buck  will  take  your  horse;"  but  Riley 
had  nothing  to  say  until  Buck  had  moved  off  out  of  hearing,  then  he 
turned  to  Rogers. 

"Look  here,  colonel  —  Tom  Raymond's  in  trouble  again,  and 
mighty  serious  trouble,  too." 

"I  know,  Riley,  he's  been  here;  just  gone,  in  fact." 

"I  knew  he'd  come  here  the  first  thing.  Just  after  you  left  this 
morning  I  got  the  word  he'd  shot  Chesney,  and  that  they  were  get- 
ting together  at  Carson  to  go  after  him;  and  I  hustled  out  here  to 
warn  you  that  there  was  nothing  you  or  any  one  could  do  for  him, 
that  they  are  bound  to  have  him." 

"He'll  have  to  take  his  chances.  I've  done  all  I  could;  given  him  a 
horse  and  money.  He's  started  for  Texas." 

"He'd  better  keep  going  —  yes,  he  better  had!"  said  Reddy. 

"I  reckon  he  knows  that,"  said  Rogers  significantly.  "Well,  I've 
done  as  much,  and  more  than  most  honest  men  would  do  under 
similar  circumstances,  and  it's  up  to  Tom  to  do  the  rest.  He's  getting 
along  in  life,  and  I  reckon  his  capers  are  about  at  an  end." 

"Chesney's  dead,  you  know,"  said  Reddy. 

"No,  you  don't  tell  me!"  Rogers  fell  back  a  step.  "You  don't 
mean  it,  Riley?" 

"Died  within  an  hour  after  he  was  shot,"  said  Reddy  briefly. 

"Well,  I  just  had  to  help  Tom,"  said  the  colonel,  after  a  mo- 
mentary silence.  "It  was  one  of  those  things  I  couldn't  get  out  of 
doing.  I've  always  been  doing  things  for  Tom  I  wouldn't  do  for  any 
other  man  alive  —  but  come  into  the  house,  I  got  something  I  want 
to  show  you.  Something  Tom  left  with  me." 

Rogers  conducted  Reddy  into  the  dining-room  where  his  own  sup- 
per was  still  waiting  for  him.  Mrs.  Rogers  wearied  by  the  long  drive 
had  already  eaten  and  had  retired  for  the  night. 

"I  reckon  you're  hungry  after  your  ride,  Riley,"  said  Rogers.  "So 
am  I.  Getting  Tom  off  sort  of  put  me  out  of  the  notion  of  eating  even 
if  I'd  had  the  time." 

The  two  men  ate  in  silence,  but  when  the  rigours  of  their  hearty 
appetites  were  satisfied,  the  colonel  produced  the  papers  Tom  Ray- 
mond had  left  with  him.  He  told  their  history,  and  then  the  two  fell 
to  examining  them  with  much  eagerness. 

"Well,"  said  Rogers  at  last.  "I  can't  see  that  there's  anything  here 
that  concerns  me.  I  reckon  they  ought  to  be  passed  along  to  Mrs. 


CHAPTER  FORTY-FOUR  397 

Landray,  though  I  can't  see  that  they  are  of  any  value.  Still  I  ought 
to  send  'em  to  her." 

"No  doubt  about  that,"  said  Reddy. 

"  You  know  her,  Riley?" 

"Well,  yes,  I've  met  her,  and  she  knows  who  I  am  well  enough." 

"How'd  you  like  to  send  'em  to  her,  Riley  ?  You  could  tell  her  the 
way  they  first  came  into  my  hands  just  as  I've  told  you;  how  Tom 
Raymond  got  hold  of  them, .and  how  he'd  always  said  they  were  lost. 
I'd  like  you  to  make  it  plain  to  her  it  wasn't  me  held  'em  back,  I 
wouldn't  want  her  to  think  that." 

"No,  of  course  not." 

"Mind  writing  her?"  inquired  Rogers.  He  was  rather  sensitive 
about  his  own  penmanship  —  and  Margaret  was  in  Cheyenne. 

"No,  not  exactly,  but  if  it's  all  the  same  to  you  I'd  rather  send 
'em  to  her  lawyer.  He  could  sort  of  explain  things  to  her.  I'd  feel 
freer  to  write  him.  I  was  going  to  write  him  anyhow,  he's  an  old 
friend  of  mine." 

"That's  the  best  idea  yet,  Riley,"  said  the  colonel,  much  pleased 
by  the  suggestion.  "I  reckon  a  little  tact  won't  be  out  of  place  in 
bringing  these  papers  to  her  notice,  and  her  lawyer's  the  man  for  the 
job."  He  folded  up  the  papers  as  he  spoke.  "I'll  leave  the  whole  thing 
in  your  hands,  Riley;  take  your  time  to  it,  and  make  it  plain  to  your 
friend  how  I  got  the  papers  first,  how  they  were  lost,  and  how  I  got 
'em  again  from  Tom  Raymond." 


CHAPTER   FORTY-FIVE 

REDDY  wrote  Ben  Wade  and   sent  him  the  papers,  asking 
him   to   explain  matters  to  Mrs.  Landray;  and  Wade  took 
them  at  once  to  her  together  with  Crittendon's  letter.  Vir- 
ginia was  not  at  home;  Mrs.  Walsh  was  there,  however,  and  he  left 
the  papers  with  her.  Then  he  remembered  that  he  was  to  dine  that 
night  with  Stephen  and  Benson.  His  watch  warned  him  that  he  had 
no  time  to  spare,  it  was  already  after  six,  so  he  hurried  across  town 
to  keep  his  engagement. 

"I'd  about  given  you  up,  Ben,"  said  Stephen,  meeting  him  in  the 
hall.  "I  thought  you  had  forgotten." 

"I  had  to  go  to  your  aunt's  on  an  errand;  serry  I'm  late;"  and 
he  followed  Stephen  into  the  dining-room,  where  they  joined  Benson 
and  Gibbs. 

As  Reddy's  letter  seemed  a  matter  that  he  could  make  public,  and 
as  there  were  certain  questions  he  wished  to  ask  Benson,  he  turned 
to  the  lawyer  after  they  were  seated,  to  say: 

"Mr.  Benson,  do  you  remember  a  man  by  the  name  of  Rogers 
who  went  West  with  Stephen's  grandfather  and  uncle  ?" 

"Yes,  perfectly;  and  no  doubt  Gibbs  does,  too." 

"A  fellow  who  thought  he  could  suppress  the  news  of  the  discov 
ery  of  gold  in  California,"  said  Gibbs. 

"He  had  a  son;  had  he  not?" 

Gibbs  nodded. 

"A  little  chap  of  eight  or  ten  —  you  recollect  him  well  enough, 
Jake  —  he  was  the  apple  of  Rogers's  eye." 

"Yes,  I  remember  him,"  said  the  lawyer  absently.  He  was  hardly 
hearing  what  was  said.  Words,  apparently  chance  words,  were 
taking  him  swiftly  back  to  the  past.  He  felt  in  his  face  the  rain  and 
sleet  of  that  March  morning  long  past,  when  he  had  gone  to  Tucker's 
Red  Brick  Tavern  to  say  good-bye  to  the  Landrays.  He  saw  the 
canvas-covered  wagons  looming  large  in  the  darkness,  the  one  dim 

398 


CHAPTER  FORTY-FIVE  399 

light  in  the  bar,  and  poor  old  Tucker,  half-crazed  with  drink  and 
grief.  He  glanced  at  Gibbs  and  wondered  if  he  recalled  that  day;  but 
the  general  had  not  been  engulfed  by  any  such  rush  of  sentiment. 
His  conscience  was  singularly  inactive:  not  a  line  of  his  bad  old  face 
showed  emotion.  He  was  eating  and  drinking  with  unabated  relish; 
perhaps  it  had  not  occurred  to  him  that  out  of  his  part  in  that  day's 
doings  a  tragedy  had  come. 

"Yes,  I  remember  the  child,"  repeated  the  lawyer. 

"Well,"  said  Wade,  "Reddy's  nearest  neighbour  is  this  man 
Rogers's  son." 

"Impossible!"  cried  Benson. 

"Why  impossible,  Mr.  Benson  ?"  said  Wade. 

"Because  the  boy  was  killed  along  with  the  others,  Ben." 

"It  seems  not,"  said  Wade.  "He's  furnished  pretty  conclusive 
evidence  that  he  is  very  much  alive.  He's  just  sent  through  Reddy  a 
bundle  of  old  papers  that  belonged  to  Stephen  Landray." 

The  knife  dropped  from  Benson's  hand  with  a  noisy  clatter.  He 
uttered  an  angry  exclamation,  but  recovered  himself  immediately. 
It  seemed  an  accident,  though  later  each  of  the  three  men  present  at 
his  table  remembered  the  circumstance. 

"What  were  these  papers,  do  you  know  ?"  he  gave  Wade  a  sharp 
glance. 

"I  don't,"  said  Wade,  and  he  met  his  glance  frankly.  "But  it 
seems  they  were  papers  that  Stephen  Landray  gave  the  boy  the  day 
he  was  killed.  He  wanted  them  sent  to  his  wife;  but  they  fell  into  the 
hands  of  a  third  party,  and  Rogers  only  recently  recovered  them.  In 
the  meantime  he  appears  to  have  forgotten  all  about  them.  It  will  be 
rather  startling  to  Mrs.  Landray  to  receive  them  after  all  these 
years." 

"I  still  think  there  must  be  some  mistake,"  said  Benson.  "As  you 
are  Mrs.  Landray's  lawyer  you'd  better  advise  her  to  be  cautious  in 
dealing  with  this  man  Rogers.  Of  course,  Crittendon  is  perfectly 
honest  and  well  meaning  in  the  matter." 

Wade  looked  at  the  older  man  with  a  puzzled  smile.  This  struck 
him  as  the  absurdest  of  theorizing,  the  most  primitive  of  suspicions. 
It  was  the  first  weak  spot  he  had  ever  detected  in  the  lawyer's  judg- 
ment. It  was  more  than  primitive,  it  was  positively  childish. 

"Perhaps,  you  were  not  aware  that  I  visited  the  scene  of  the  mas- 
sacre; I  was  accompanied  by  a  man  who  had  taken  part  in  the 
fight,  and  who  assured  me  that  every  member  of  the  party  but  him- 


400  THE  LANDRAYS 

self  had  been  killed  by  the  Indians.  As  he  afterward  buried  the 
bodies,  it  is  scarcely  likely  that  he  could  have  been  mistaken." 

"  But  it  seems  he  was  —  that  is,  I  am  going  on  the  assumption  that 
the  papers  are  what  they  purport  to  be.  A  point,  of  course,  that  only 
Mrs.  Landray  can  settle." 

The  lawyer  gave  him  a  frankly  hostile  glance.  It  angered  him  that 
Wade  should  abide  by  his  own  conclusions  in  spite  of  what  he  had 
said. 

"My  guide,  he  was  the  survivor  of  the  party,  of  whom  I  have 
spoken,  stated  specifically  that  the  boy  was  dead.  It  is  incredible 
that  he  could  have  been  mistaken,  when  he  returned  to  the  scene  of 
the  massacre  weeks,  it  may  have  been  months,  afterward,  and 
buried  the  bodies." 

"I  admit  that's  a  hard  point  to  get  around.  On  the  other  hand, 
how  does  Reddy's  friend  know  all  the  facts  he  appears  to  know  ? 
Can  you  explain  that  ?" 

"Likely  enough  he  got  'em  out  of  Mrs.  Crittendon;  she  knows  a 
good  deal  about  the  Landrays,"  suggested  the  general. 

"Her  father's  cousin  was  a  member  of  the  party,"  said  Benson. 
"It  is  possible  she  knows  all  that  any  of  us  can  know." 

"But  the  papers,  Mr.  Benson,  the  papers!  Suppose  they  are 
genuine,  what  then  ?"  asked  Wade. 

"We  don't  know  that  yet.  Mrs.  Landray  will  determine  that  point." 

"And  you  always  understood  that  the  boy  was  killed  with  the 
others?"' 

"Yes,  Raymond  distinctly  stated  —  ' 

"Wait  a  minute  —  who's  Raymond,  Mr.  Benson?"  interrupted 
Wade  hastily. 

"He's  the  man  of  whom  I've  been  telling  you." 

"Well,  Rogers  claims  to  have  recovered  these  papers  from  a  man 
named  Raymond." 

Benson  looked  a  trifle  blank  at  this.  He  tried  to  remember  just 
how  Raymond  had  impressed  him,  but  the  years  had  effaced  what- 
ever impression  good  or  bad  he  may  once  have  had  of  his  guide.  He 
was  troubled  in  spite  of  himself.  While  he  could  not  think  that  the 
papers  meant  anything,  yet  there  was  something  ominous  in  their 
recovery  after  all  these  years. 

"Well,  you  must  admit  it's  a  mighty  singular  incident  any  way 
you  view  it,"  said  Wade.  After  all  he  was  not  disposed  to  hang  to  a 
point  when  it  displeased  Benson,  for  the  older  lawyer  had  been  useful 


CHAPTER  FORTY-FIVE  40. 

to  him  in  the  past,  and  it  would  not  be  his  fault  if  this  use  was  not 
repeated  in  the  future. 

"I'd  advise  Mrs.  Landray  to  look  out  for  this  man  Rogers.  His 
recovery  of  the  papers  comes  too  pat  on  Mrs.  Crittendon's  meetinc 
with  him." 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  that,"  said  Wade.  "Reddy  says  he's  a  rich 
man,  and  that  he's  known  him  intimately  for  some  time." 

"Rogers  is  the  name  of  the  girl  Reddy 's  going  to  marry,"  said 
Stephen. 

He  had  been  an  interested  listener  to  all  that  had  been  said,  though 
he  had  taken  no  part  in  the  conversation.  He  believed  that  the  whole 
circumstance  of  the  recovery  of  the  papers  was  merely  one  of  those 
mysteries  that  occasionally  come  into  the  lives  of  people.  He  was 
willing  to  accept  the  explanation  Reddy  had  offered  for  what  it  was 
worth;  he  could  not  imagine  any  motive  for  fraud  such  as  Benson 
apparently  suspected. 

"That's  so!"  said  Wade.  "Rogers  is  her  name,  and  she  is  the 
daughter  of  one  of  his  neighbours.  I  guess  it's  the  same,  Stephen." 

Benson  had  quite  recovered  his  composure,  and  that  he  had  lost 
it  had  been  only  evidenced  by  a  certain  sharpness  that  had  crept  into 
his  voice  when  he  addressed  Wade.  If  the  papers  were  what  Reddy 
said  they  were,  they  were  probably  nothing  more  than  letters;  or 
perhaps  the  list  of  the  share-holders  in  the  ill-starred  venture  in  which 
Stephen  Landray  had  lost  his  life;  undoubtedly  this  was  what  they 
would  prove  to  be. 

With  the  passing  of  Benson's  opposition  to  Wade's  facts,  the  con- 
versation drifted  into  other  channels,  and  presently,  for  the  time 
being  at  least,  they  forgot  all  about  Reddy 's  singular  cummunica- 
tion.  That  is,  all  forgot  but  Benson;  he  could  not  forget. 

And  even  while  they  were  discussing  them,  Virginia  and  Mark 
Norton  had  been  poring  over  the  papers. 

"It  is  a  very  remarkable  circumstance,"  murmured  the  banker. 
"I  see  —  accounts  of  the  Benson  and  California  Mining  and 
Trading  Company.  Did  you  know  that  my  father  had  money  in 
that  venture  ?  I  declare,  here's  a  list  of  the  stock-holders  —  and 
here's  his  name  —  he's  down  for  two  shares.  No,  I  can't  see  that 
these  papers  are  of  any  importance  to  you,  or  ever  could  have  been. 
They  relate  to  matters  that  must  have  been  long  since  settled  by 
Mr.  Benson."  He  had  been  turning  the  papers  slowly  as  he  spoke. 
Suddenly  he  paused  to  glance  sharply  at  a  paper  he  held  in  his  hand. 


402  THE  LANDRAYS 

"What  is  it?"  Virginia  asked. 

"Why,  how  much  land  did  you  own  in  Belmont  County?'* 

"One  thousand  acres." 

"One  thousand  acres,"  he  repeated,  "that's  what  I  thought 
then  there  is  some  mistake  here.  In  the  list  of  his  holdings,  your  hus- 
band has  entered  two  thousand  acres  as  held  by  him  and  his  brother 
in  Belmont  County.  You  can  see  —  here,"  and  he  showed  her  the 
place. 

"But  I  only  sold  Mr.  Benson  one  thousand  acres,  no,  there 
couldn't  have  been  more  than  that;  there  is  some  mistake." 

"Oh,  you  sold  the  land  to  Mr.  Benson  ?" 

"He  bought  it  for  Page  Stark." 

"Well,  here  is  your  husband's  memorandum  in  his  own  hand- 
writing; he  mentions  two  thousand  acres  which  he  owned  in  Belmont 
County.  I  don't  know,  but  of  course  there  may  be  some  mistake. 
Yes,  there  must  be,  though  it's  hardly  likely  that  he  could  have 
been  in  error  in  such  a  matter.  Mr.  Benson,  you  say,  sold  this  land 
for  you  to  Mr.  Stark,  sold  all  the  land  you  owned  there  ?  I  wonder 
if  it  is  possible  that  you  could  have  transferred  a  larger  acreage  than 
you  were  aware  of." 

"Impossible!"  cried  Virginia.  "Mr.  Benson  is  too  careful  a  man 
for  anything  like  that  to  have  happened." 

"Of  couse,  it  is  hardly  a  reasonable  supposition,  but  on  the 
other  hand,  Mrs.  Landray,  your  husband  certainly  knew  whether  it 
was  one  or  two  thousand  acres  he  owned." 

"You  don't  doubt  Mr.  Benson?" 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  do  or  not,"  said  the  banker.  "I  certainly 
think  your  husband  would  not  have  written  the  word  two  if  he  had 
meant  one!  I  think  you'd  better  show  this  to  Ben  Wade;  let  him  fer- 
ret around  among  these  papers.  I'll  send  him  up  here  to-morrow." 

The  next  morning,  Mark  Norton  stopped  at  Wade's  office  on  his 
way  downtown. 

"You're  early,  Ben,"  he  said. 

"I  don't  want  any  clients  to  turn  away  because  my  door's  shut; 
and  not  only  that,  I  was  expecting  a  letter  from  Clara  on  the  early 
mail." 

"Her  mother  complains  that  you  seem  to  be  getting  all  the  letters; 
but  see  here,  Ben,  Mrs.  Landray  had  me  glance  over  those  papers 
you  left  for  her  last  night."  He  looked  rather  grave.  "I  don't  under- 
stand them;  and  the  more  I've  thought  about  them,  the  less  I  under- 


CHAPTER  FORTY-FIVE  403 

stand  them.  So  what  I  want  to  say  is  this,  you  go  over  them  care- 
fully." 

"Why,  what's  wrong?"  asked  Wade  eagerly. 

"Mrs.  Landray  will  tell  you.  I  don't  understand  the  matter  at  all. 
But  I  want  you  to  be  quite  sure  you're  right  before  you  hazard  an 
opinion,  or  there  may  be  serious  consequences;  serious  to  her,  and 
serious  to  us  all.  Just  keep  this  clearly  in  mind,  that's  all." 

"Do  you  mean  that  she  wants  to  see  me  this  morning  ?" 

"Yes,  can  you  go  there  now  ?" 

"Certainly,  if  she  wants  me;"  and  Wade  reached  for  his  hat. 

What  the  banker  had  said,  took  him  in  hot  haste  to  the  cottage. 

"I  wonder  if  old  Benson  has  been  up  to  any  tricks!"  he  speculated 
as  he  strode  along.  "He  was  her  lawyer  when  she  had  money,  and 
she  looks  after  her  business  in  a  way  to  make  her  a  temptation  to  her 
attorney." 

Mr.  Wade  was  himself  quite  honest.  He  had  certain  large  ambi- 
tions, and  these  coupled  with  small  opportunity  had  saved  him  from 
any  false  steps;  but  he  did  not  always  give  others  the  credit  of  seeing 
as  far  ahead  as  he  saw. 

He  reached  the  cottage,  and  found  Virginia  waiting  for  him.  She 
rose  from  her  chair  as  he  entered  the  room. 

"I  have  just  left  Mr.  Norton,"  said  Wade,  as  he  greeted  her.  "He 
said  you  wished  me  to  call." 

"Yes,  Mr.  Wade,  I  did,"  said  Virginia  gravely.  She  had  been 
seated  at  a  table  that  stood  by  one  of  the  windows  through  which  the 
morning  sun  was  streaming,  and  Wade  saw  that  the  table  was  lit- 
tered with  papers.  He  conjectured  that  they  were  the  papers  that 
Reddy  had  sent. 

"Did  Mr.  Norton  tell  you  anything?"  asked  Virginia. 

"Not  a  word,  Mrs.  Landray,  except  that  you  wanted  to  see  me. 
He  intimated  though  that  something  had  happened." 

"Something  has  happened,"  said  Virginia,  with  a  swift  intake  of 
her  breath.  "Please  sit  down,  Mr.  Wade  — here  by  the  table - 
the  light  too  strong  ?  I  want  you  to  look  over  these  papers.  They  are 
those  you  left  yesterday." 

"You  mean  that  I  am  to  read  them,  Mrs.  Landray?  he  asked, 
as  he  seated  himself  and  deftly  arranged  the  papers  in  a  neat  little 

"Yes,  Mr.  Wade,"  and  Virginia  placed  herself  opposite  him. 
He  realized  that  her  composure  had  received  some  sort  of  a  shock, 


404  THE  LANDRAYS 

but  he  understood  that  if  it  had  been  merely  some  belated  word  of 
farewell  from  the  dead  man  she  would  not  have  sent  for  him.  No, 
clearly  it  was  a  business  matter,  and  he  thought  of  Benson  again 
with  a  hard  cynical  smile.  Was  he  to  be  given  a  glimpse  of  some  past 
dereliction  on  the  part  of  the  old  lawyer!  Mr.  Wade's  smile  was  both 
evil  and  unkind,  but  the  next  instant  his  lips  straightened  themselves, 
and  his  gravity  was  equal  to  Virginia's  as  he  asked, 

"These  papers  are  exactly  what  they  assume  to  be  ?" 

"How  do  you  mean,  I  don't  understand  your  question,"  said 
Virginia. 

"I  mean  they  are  genuine?" 

"Yes,  they  were  my  husband's." 

"A  very  singular  circumstance,"  said  Wade,  as  with  great  deliber- 
ation he  began  his  examination.  Virginia  watched  his  face.  But  it 
was  expressionless,  beyond  that  it  betokened  complete  absorption  in 
his  task.  The  first  paper  he  took  up  seemed  to  be  an  account  of 
moneys  due  the  Landrays.  He  ran  through  it  carefully. 

"This,  I  suppose,  goes  back  to  the  time  when  your  husband  and 
his  brother  owned  the  old  mill,"  he  said  at  last.  "It  is  a  list  of  credits 
they  had  given.  Am  I  right  ?  I  see  there  is  written  here  at  the  bottom 
of  the  page,  'In  Benson's  hands  for  collection.'"  He  glanced  at  her, 
and  now  his  expression  was  one  of  curiosity,  he  wondered  if  she  had 
discovered  anything  here.  She  seemed  to  understand  this  unspoken 
question,  for  she  said, 

"I  want  you  to  examine  all  the  papers,  Mr.  Wade." 

He  put  the  first  aside,  and  picked  up  another.  It  proved  to  be  a  list 
of  the  share-holders  in  the  Benson  and  California  Mining  and  Trad- 
ing Company,  with  the  number  of  shares  each  investor  had  taken, 
set  down  opposite  his  name.  He  glanced  through  this  hastily,  for  he 
knew  that  it  could  have  no  bearing  on  the  present  situation,  since 
the  tragic  failure  of  that  enterprise  had  in  the  very  nature  of  things 
cancelled  all  obligations. 

There  were  other  papers  dealing  with  this  luckless  venture;  ac- 
counts covering  the  expenses  of  the  party  from  the  time  it  left  Benson 
until  it  reached  Fort  Laramie.  When  he  put  the  last  of  these  aside, 
only  two  papers  were  left.  One  of  these  proved  to  be  a  brief  memo- 
randum of  the  personal  indebtedness  of  the  Landray  brothers. 

Again  Wade  looked  at  Mrs.  Landray.  But  her  face  told  him 
nothing,  and  he  turned  his  attention  to  the  last  paper  on  the 
table. 


CHAPTER  FORTY-FIVE  405 

It  gave  briefly  a  description  of  the  various  properties  owned  by  the 
Landrays.  This  he  put  aside  with  the  others. 

"What's  wrong,  Mrs.  Landray?"  he  said,  after  a  momentary 
silence. 

"  Did  you  see  in  that  first  paper  —  "  He  found  it  while  she  spoke, 
"  —  where  something  has  been  crossed  out?" 

"Yes,  here,  an  item  of  twenty-five  hundred  dollars.  What  is  it, 
'  Deferred  payments  on  the — '  what  ?  I  can't  make  it  out." 

"On  the  distillery,"  said  Virginia. 

"Oh,  yes,  that's  it!  'Due  from  Levi  Tucker- 

"  And  now  in  the  very  last  paper  you  looked  at,  my  husband  men- 
tions two  thousand  acres  in  Belmont  County." 

Wade  nodded. 

Virginia  leaned  toward  him  in  her  eagerness. 

"Do  you  suppose  there  could  be  any  mistake  about  that,  Mr. 
Wade?" 

"How  do  you  mean,  Mrs.  Landray?" 

"I  mean,  could  he  have  written  two  thousand  when  he  meant 
only  one  thousand." 

Wade  shook  his  head. 

"Why,  no,  why  should  you  suppose  that  ?  The  memorandum 
shows  careful  preparation,  to  my  thinking.  But  I  don't  at  all  under- 
stand your  question  —  two  thousand,  when  he  meant  one  —  what 
has  become  of  the  land  anyhow  ?  Who  owns  it  now  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  —  I  sold  it  to  Mr.  Stark,  Asa  Stark's  son,  but  I 
only  sold  him  one  thousand  acres.  Mr.  Benson  arranged  the  sale." 

"You  sold  a  thousand  acres,"  Wade  repeated.  "What  became  of 
the  other  thousand  acres  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  that  is  what  I  want  you  to  discover  for  me.' 

"But  I  don't  understand  at  all  about  this  land." 

"You  see,  Mr.  Wade,  my  husband  and  his  brother  accepted  a 
thousand  acres  of  land  from  Mr.  Tucker,  it  was  part  of  a  large 
tract  which  he  owned  in  Belmont  County." 

"Oh,  in  trade  for  the  distillery  —  I  see." 

"No,  it  was  in  part  payment  for  the  distillery.  I  supposed  at  the 
time  my  husband  went  West,  that  there  was  still  twenty-five  hundred 
dollars  due  him  from  Mr.  Tucker  — you  see  that  is  the  sum  he 
crossed  out  — but  afterward,  Mr.  Benson  said  not.  He  said  Mr. 
Tucker  had  finished  paying  for  the  distillery;  and^my  impression 
was  that  the  money  was  taken  West  for  investment." 


406  THE  LANDRAYS 

"So,"  said  Wade.  "Mr.  Tucker  owned  several  thousand  acres 
in  Belmont  County,  and  of  this  tract  he  traded  one  thousand 
acres  for  the  distillery,  leaving  twenty-five  hundred  dollars  un- 
paid?" 

"Yes,  as  I  remember  it,  that  is  how  it  was,"  said  Virginia. 

"Do  you  know  what  the  valuation  of  the  property  was  ?" 

"Five  thousand  dollars." 

"Then,"  said  Wade,  with  a  ring  of  triumph  in  his  tone,  "if  Mr. 
Tucker  had  subsequently  turned  over  another  thousand  acres  to 
clear  himself,  it  would  tally  with  the  list,  wouldn't  it  ?  And  you  sold 
this  land?" 

"I  sold  a  thousand  acres." 

"You  sold  a  thousand  acres  to  a  man  by  the  name  of  Stark.  What 
was  the  consideration  ?" 

"Five  thousand  dollars." 

"Was  it  cash?" 

"Yes." 

"But  are  you  sure,  Mrs.  Landray,  that  you  only  sold  a  thousand 
acres  ? " 

"That  is  all  I  intended  to  sell;  indeed  I  did  not  know  that  there 
was  more  than  that  to  sell." 

"But  you  saw  the  deed  ?" 

"Yes." 

"You  had  it  in  your  hand  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  I  don't  remember  that  part,  I  think  Mr.  Benson 
read  it  to  me." 

"But  who  was  present  ?" 

"A  notary,  I  think,  and  perhaps  Jane,  and  Mr.  Benson." 

"And  you  didn't  see  this  man  Stark  at  all  ?" 

"No." 

"But  his  name  appeared  ?" 

"Yes." 

Wade  whistled  softly  under  his  breath.  Perhaps  it  was  a  generous 
impulse  that  prompted  him  to  ask. 

"Don't  you  think  we'd  better  ask  Mr.  Benson  to  explain  this 
transaction  ?" 

"Why  should  we  ask  him  ?" 

"He  might  be  able  to  explain  the  circumstances.  As  the  matter 
stands  now  it  doesn't  look  altogether  creditable;  and  when  you  had 
sold  this  thousand  acres,  that  seemed  to  end  matters  so  far  as  you 


CHAPTER  FORTY-FIVE  407 

owning  land  in  Belmont  County  was  concerned  —  Mr.  Stark  didn't 
appear  with  offers  for  more  land  ?" 

''Apparently  I  had  sold  all  there  was  to  sell,"  said  Virginia. 

"Did  you  want  to  sell  the  land  ?  Had  you  asked  Mr.  Benson  to 
find  a  purchaser  ?" 

"No,  I  don't  know  how  he  found  Mr.  Stark,  or  how  Mr.  Stark 
knew  I  had  the  land,  I  never  heard  Mr.  Benson  say." 

"But  he  advised  you  to  sell  the  land  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,  he  said  it  was  producing  nothing,  which  was  quite  true; 
and  that  it  was  of  little  or  no  value,  but  that  Mr.  Stark  seemed  to 
think  he  could  do  something  with  it,  at  least  he  was  willing  to  take 
it  off  my  hands." 

"As  a  great  favour,  I  suppose,"  said  Wade,  smiling  faintly. 
"What's  become  of  Stark  ?" 

"He's  dead." 

"Then  there  is  only  Mr.  Benson  who  might  have  the  facts  we  want 
to  know,  Mrs.  Landray.  What  is  your  theory?" 

"  I  think  at  the  very  last,  just  before  they  started  West,  Mr.  Tucker 
must  have  induced  my  husband  and  his  brother  to  accept  more  land 
in  payment  for  the  distillery." 

"And  the  deeds  were  left  in  Mr.  Benson's  hands,  that  was  prob- 
ably the  way  of  it,  Mrs.  Landray;  so  Mr.  Benson  knows  all  that  we 
should  know." 

"But  must  we  go  to  Mr.  Benson  ?" 

"Don't  you  wish  me  to  speak  to  him  ?** 

"I  don't,"  said  Virginia  quietly. 

"Then  it  would  be  easy  enough  to  go  across  to  Belmont  County 
and  look  into  the  records.  I  suppose  you  never  saw  the  original  deeds; 
they  were  among  the  papers  your  husband  left  with  Mr.  Benson." 

"I  suppose  so." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do,  Mrs.  Landray  ?" 

"Can  you  go  to  Belmont  County?" 

"Most  assuredly,  if  you  wish  it.  Perhaps  that  is  the  best  plan  — 
there's  no  dodging  the  records  in  the  case,  you  know." 

While  Wade  was  entirely  friendly  to  Benson,  he  was  more  of  a 
lawyer  than  a  friend,  and  the  case  had  certain  romantic  interest  for 
him;  spectacular  possibilities  on  which  his  mind  fed  subtly,  fasci- 
nated. Then  there  was  the  lapse  of  time,  the  curious  way  in  which  it 
had  all  worked  out,  the  idea  of  being  opposed  to  Benson  in  litiga- 
tion that  would  shak*  the  town  to  its  centre,  the  splendid  publicity. 


4o8  THE  LANDRAYS 

All  these  phases  of  the  possible  case  he  saw,  charmed  and  inspired 
him;  and  he  swore  softly  under  his  breath  as  he  strode  back  to  the 
office. 

"I'll  make  a  case,  if  there's  a  hair  to  hang  on!" 

But  his  first  act  in  the  making  of  this  case  was  to  light  a  disrepu- 
table cob  pipe  which  was  reserved  for  times  of  great  mental  activity; 
then  he  locked  his  door,  and  committed  the  facts  Virginia  had  given 
him  to  writing,  but  the  form  of  this  writing  was  a  letter  to  Clara 
Norton.  He  finished  his  letter  by  asking  her  to  preserve  the  formid- 
able missive  he  had  produced;  for  he  said,  "I  shall  never  be  able  to 
state  what  I  see  quite  so  clearly  to  any  one  else.  I  shall  write  you  from 
Belmont  County  the  first  thing.  I  know  you  will  hope  with  me  that 
my  theorizing  is  not  all  moonshine,  and  that  I'll  come  on  the  sub- 
stance of  fraud,  for  this  will  mean  so  much  to  us  both;"  and  then 
Mr.  Wade  blew  a  cloud  of  smoke  with  smiling  tender  lips,  and  re- 
duced to  a  single  paragraph  the  wealth  of  sentiment  he  suddenly 
felt  stirring  within  his  soul. 

He  left  town  that  night,  and  without  seeing  Stephen;  for  he  feared 
that  he  might  let  slip  something  of  their  discovery.  Of  one  thing  he 
felt  quite  certain;  Stephen,  if  it  came  to  taking  sides,  would  cast  his 
fortunes  with  Benson.  He  could  not  think  that  he  would  be  so  blind 
to  his  own  ultimate  interests  as  to  do  otherwise. 

He  was  absent  from  Benson  just  two  days.  The  morning  of  the 
third  he  returned,  and  though  the  hour  was  early,  he  went  at  once 
to  Virginia. 

"Well  ?"  she  asked,  after  they  had  shaken  hands.  He  was  smiling, 
and  from  that  smile  she  argued  ill  for  Benson. 

"It  looks  ugly,  Mrs.  Landray.  I  knew  you'd  want  to  know  Vvhat 
I'd  found  the  minute  I  got  back,  so  I  came  here  from  the  train,  just 
stopping  to  leave  my  satchel  at  the  office.  Yes"  —  he  was  slowly 
drawing  off  his  gloves  now  —  "yes,  it  looks  bad  for  Benson.  I 
wouldn't  care  to  stand  where  he  stands.  I  accomplished  more  than 
I  set  out  to.  Stark  must  have  been  the  merest  dummy  in  the  transac- 
tion; the  real  purchaser  never  saw  him.  As  in  your  own  case,  he 
had  his  dealings  entirely  with  Mr.  Benson." 

"I  should  never  have  thought  he  could  have  been  so  false!"  cried 
Virginia. 

"You  can  never  tell  until  a  man's  tempted,"  said  Wade  placidly. 

"But  the  land,"  said  Virginia.  "The  number  of  acres  ?" 

"The  memorandum  was  correct  in  every  particular;  no  matter 


CHAPTER  FORTY-FIVE  409 

what  you  thought  at  the  time,  you  actually  transferred  two  thousand 
acres  to  Stark.  But,"  he  took  a  turn  about  the  room,  "the  best 
is  yet  to  come!  I  found  Southerland,  the  man  who  owns  the  land. 
I  went  on  to  Wheeling  to  see  him,  and  he  was  perfectly  willing  to 
talk.  He  tells  me  he  paid  —  fifty  thousand  dollars  for  the  land!  The 
various  transfers  touching  the  final  disposition  of  the  property  all 
fall  within  the  space  of  less  than  two  weeks,  and  according  to 
Southerland's  story,  Benson  must  have  had  his  offer  before  he  pre- 
sented the  fake  offer  from  Stark;  indeed,  he  was  on  there,  and  in 
Southerland's  company  visited  the  land;  this  grew  out  of  Souther- 
land's  having  been  hezv  —  I  suppose  you  never  knew  that  ?" 

"No."  A  hard  look  had  come  into  Virginia's  face.  She  grasped 
only  the  big  salient  fact  of  Benson's  utter  treachery;  for  the  man- 
oeuvres which  led  up  to  it,  and  which  so  impressed  Wade,  she  cared 
nothing;  they  did  not  interest  her  now  that  Benson's  dishonesty 
seemed  clear.  She  was  thinking  of  what  Stephen  Landray's  life  had 
been  in  Kansas,  for  Gibbs  had  long  since  told  her  the  whole  story  of 
his  failure  there;  and  she  hated  Benson  for  his  lonely  death.  If  that 
money  had  come  to  her,  he  might  have  been  saved. 

"I  wish  you  would  tell  me  what  you  want  me  to  do,  Mrs.  Lan- 
dray," said  Wade. 

"I  shall  sue  Mr.  Benson,"  said  Virginia. 

Wade  nodded  eagerly. 

"Of  course,  you  can't  let  the  matter  slip;  it  wouldn't  be  just  to 

ir  » 
yourselt. 

"Or  to  Stephen,"  added  Virginia. 

Wade  gave  her  a  blank  stare  at  this. 

"I  am  getting  to  be  an  old  woman,  Mr.  Wade;  for  myself  I  no 
longer  care;  whatever  I  do  will  be  for  that  poor  boy's  sake  —  for 
Stephen's  sake."  She  gazed  sombrely  at  Wade,  and  he  hid  a  smile; 
to  characterize  Stephen  as  that  poor  boy,  struck  him  as  being  very 
funny,  a  touch  of  humour  of  which  he  had  not  suspected  her  capable. 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Landray  ?"  he  prompted,  for  she  was  gazing  abstract- 
edly from  the  window. 

"I  must  see  Stephen.  I  have  told  him  nothing  yet,    she  said. 

"But  this  does  not  necessarily  affect  him,"  he  urged  at  a  hazard. 

She  turned  impatiently. 

"You  do  not  understand  me,  Mr.  Wade,  this  is  not  a  personal 
matter  in  the  way  you  see  it.  He  is  a  Landray,  and  it  is  the  Landray 
fortune  that  has  been  scattered,  and  it  becomes  his  duty  as  a  Lan- 


4io  THE  LANDRAYS 

dray  to  see  that  justice  is  done.  No  doubt  he  has  a  certain  affection 
for  Mr.  Benson,  but  how  can  he  trust  him  in  the  future  when  he 
learns  how  false  he  has  been  in  the  past  ?  He  is  wholly  dependent  on 
his  whims.'* 

"Those  are  points  you  will  have  to  make  clear,  Mrs.  Landray; 
and  frankly,  I  would  make  them  very  clear." 

"You  are  willing  to  undertake  the  suit  ?"  said  Virginia,  suddenly 
changing  the  subject,  for  his  doubt  of  Stephen  offended  her. 

"I,  Mrs.  Landray  ?"  he  cried.  "I'd  consider  it  a  most  tremendous 
compliment  to  be  retained  in  the  case;  it  would  be  the  making  of 
me;  but  I  don't  know  that  you  would  be  doing  right  in  leaving  it  all 
to  me.  Mr.  Benson  will  probably  employ  only  the  most  eminent 
talent;  he  can't  afford  tr  do  less." 

But  Virginia  put  this  aside. 

"You  will  continue  to  be  my  lawyer,  Mr.  Wade." 

"I  shall  do  my  best  for  you,  Mrs.  Landray,"  he  said  warmry 

"What  did  you  mean  by  what  you  just  said  about  Stephen,  Mi. 
Wade?" 

"Well,  you  know  he'll  be  involved;  he  can't  remain  friendly  to 
you  and  Mr.  Benson,  too." 

"He  will  go  with  his  family." 

"But  he  is  doubly  related,"  urged  Wade.  "And  if  he  casts  his  lot 
with  you  he  will  be  giving  up  a  good  deal  for  very  little  —  I  mean 
what  Mr.  Benson  may  do  for  him." 

"How  do  we  know  that  Mr.  Benson  will  do  anything  for  him  ?" 
uemanded  Virginia  bitterly.  "He  was  once  just  as  fond  of  his  father 
apparently.  And  he  is  doing  all  he  can  to  ruin  the  boy,  he  is  without 
ambition  or  purpose,  a  depen  lent." 

"He's  a  pretty  nice  fellow,  you  must  admit  that,"  said  Wade 
generously. 

"But  he  is  dependent  on  Mr.  Benson;  he  is  in  Mr.  Benson's 
hands,  who  may  do  much  or  little  for  him,  as  the  whim  takes 
him." 

"Well,  of  course,  that's  so,  but  certainly  Mr.  Benson  displays  the 
greatest  affection  for  him,"  said  Wade.  He  wanted  Stephen  left  out 
of  it,  for  he  felt  that  if  they  counted  on  his  active  partisanship,  noth- 
ing would  come  of  it,  a  contingency  he  was  determined  should  not 
arise  if  he  could  possibly  prevent  it. 

"Individually,  I  no  longer  care,"  said  Virginia.  "My  own  needs 
are  few.  I  shall  probablv  always  have  enough  for  my  simple  way  of 


CHAPTER  FORTY-FIVE  41 » 

life,  and  unless  Stephen  is  in  full  sympathy  with  me,  I  shall  not  care 
to  do  anything." 

Wade  gasped. 

"  I  think  we  ought  to  look  at  it  from  his  standpoint." 

"What  is  his  standpoint?" 

"Well,  it's  generally  understood  that  he  will  inherit  largely  from 
Mr.  Benson,  and  Mr.  Benson  is  probably  worth  a  million  at  least, 
no  one  knows  how  much.  If  we  ask  him  to  side  with  us,  we  will  be 
asking  him  to  give  up  his  really  great  expectations  for  little  or  noth-  • 
ing.  Of  course,  even  if  he  sided  with  Mr.  Benson,  Benson  might 
trick  him,  might  leave  him  with  nothing  after  leading  him  to  ex- 
pect great  things."  And  he  left  this  shrewd  suspicion  to  do  its  work 
with  her. 


CHAPTER   FORTY-SIX 

HE  was  unaware  of  it,  but  none  the  less  Stephen  was  on  trial 
with  Benson.  The  lawyer  had  neither  the  wish  nor  purpose 
to  influence  him  in  any  particular,  he  seemed  quite  willing 
that  the  young  fellow  should  develop  in  his  own  way  and  after  his 
own  fashion;  and  if  it  were  a  good  fashion  it  would  be  well  with  him; 
if  it  were  not  a  good  fashion,  it  would  not  be  so  well  with  him.  Yet 
no  matter  what  Stephen  did  or  failed  to  do  for  himself,  within  certain 
limits  which  were  already  clearly  defined  in  his  own  mind,  Benson 
intended  to  right  in  him  the  wrong  he  had  done  Virginia  Landray. 
The  least  he  would  do  would  be  to  provide  adequately  for  his 
future.  So  he  settled  down  to  watch  Stephen  drift;  a  thing 
Stephen  was  ready  enough  to  do,  for  he  was  finding  existence 
very  pleasant  in  the  little  Ohio  town;  certain  of  its  aspects 
rather  amused  him,  but  on  the  whole  it  was  not  lacking  in  culture 
and  dignity,  while  the  concerns  of  life  were  carried  on  with 
considerable  zeal.  He  was  regarded  locally  as  Benson's  heir; 
a  thing  he,  too,  believed  when  it  occurred  to  him  to  speculate 
on  the  future. 

In  time  the  lawyer  came  to  have  a  real  and  deep  affection  for  the 
young  fellow;  he  became  more  and  more  dependent  as  the  weeks 
slipped  by.  He  had  not  understood  before  how  empty  his  life  was; 
and  as  his  affection  for  Stephen  grew,  he  became  less  critical  of  him, 
until  he  finally  ceased  to  watch  him  from  any  such  impulse.  But 
Gibbs  was  not  so  well  satisfied  with  the  situation.  He,  too,  felt  a 
fatherly  interest  in  the  young  fellow.  He  was  familiar  with  Benson's 
prejudices,  and  was  conscious  that  if  Stephen  had  been  any  one  else 
the  lawyer  would  have  heartily  disapproved  of  him.  Gibbs  won- 
dered how  long  it  would  be  until  Benson  reverted  to  his  normal 
standards.  He  hoped  there  would  be  no  disappointments  in  store 
for  Stephen.  One  day  alone  with  Benson  in  the  office,  he  took  occa- 
sion to  say: 


CHAPTER  FORTY-SIX  413 

"Jake,  what's  Stephen  going  to  do  with  himself?  He  ain't  going 
around  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  all  his  life,  is  he  ?" 

"Why  shouldn't  he,  if  he  wants  to,  and  if  I  want  him  to  ?"  re- 
torted Benson  sharply. 

"Well,  you're  rather  down  on  idleness  as  a  general  thing,  Jake; 
mighty  little  of  it's  entered  into  your  experience." 

Personally,  Gibbs  had  no  illusions  about  industry,  he  considered 
it  a  fine  thing,  so  long  as  it  paid. 

"The  Bensons  have  always  worked  hard  enough."  said  the  lawyer. 

"That's  not  so  true  of  the  Landrays,  he  favours  the  Landrays," 
and  Gibbs  chuckled. 

"He  is  half  Benson.  Why  shouldn't  we  enjoy  now?  I  am  glad 
enough  to  see  some  one  who  is  gracefully  idle;  who  seems  to  be  able 
to  do  nothing  without  getting  into  mischief  and  making  a  mess  of  it. 

"Well,  he  seems  to  have  an  infinite  capacity  in  that  direction.  I've 
never  heard  him  complain  of  not  having  an  occupation.  It  ain't  a 
thing  he  misses  much,  I  should  say,"  said  Gibbs. 

If  Gibbs  could  not  rid  himself  of  the  conviction  that  Stephen 
should  be  thinking  of  his  future,  Virginia  was  very  strongly  of  this 
same  opinion,  too.  She  had  no  faith  in  Benson,  and  his  indifference 
in  the  case 'of  Stephen  she  felt  was  fraught  with  disastrous  possibil- 
ities for  the  latter.  His  strength  and  vigour,  his  very  manhood  would 
be  sapped  by  his  condition  of  dependence.  From  her,  this  feeling 
spread  to  Mrs.  Walsh,  and  Harriett,  and  Elinor,  and  even  to  Mark 
Norton,  who  partook  in  some  measure  of  all  their  prejudices,  for  he 
found  that  incessant  reiteration  sooner  or  later  fastened  them  upon 
him. 

Stephen's  lack  of  all  ambition  was  a  blow  to  Elinor.  She  had  more 
than  liked  him  from  the  first,  but  Ben  Wade  had  always  been  held 
up  to  her  by  Clara,  as  a  shining  example  of  what  a  young  man  should 
be;  and  Clara's  convictions,  which  were  always  advanced  with  sin- 
gular steadiness,  never  failed  to  impress  her.  If  Wade  was  all  Clara 
said,  and  she  hoped  Ciara  was  not  mistaken,  surely  Stephen's  lack  of 
all  apparent  ambition  was  anything  but  praiseworthy.  She  would  have 
liked  to  rouse  him,  to  have  pointed  out  to  him,  that  a  young  man  who 
had  leisure  for  afternoon  calls,  was  in  the  nature  of  an  innovation  in 
Benson.  She  did  not  doubt  that  when  she  returned  home  this  was 
one  of  the  first  things  Clara  would  do,  for  Clara  was  the  soul  of  un- 
compromising candour. 

Of  Ben  Wade  Stephen  saw  much.  Wade's  attitude  was  that  of  a 


4H  THE  LANDRAYS 

lifelong  friend  who  was  resuming  a  merely  interrupted  intimacy,  and 
in  this  light  Stephen  came  to  look  upon  him  and  to  accept  him.  Wade 
possessed  a  wide  popularity,  but  the  liking  in  which  he  was  held  ex- 
tended to  no  other  member  of  his  family.  Wade  himself  did  not  ap- 
pear to  notice  this,  certainly  he  did  not  resent  it.  This  struck 
Stephen  as  odd,  and  it  was  one  of  the  things  he  admired  his  friend 
the  less  for.  Another  thing  he  was  not  slow  to  observe,  was  that  he 
was  very  welcome  at  the  Norton's;  but  he  admitted  that  Ben  could 
hardly  be  blamed  for  having  made  the  most  of  his  opportunities, 
whether  professional  or  social. 

Ben  was  also  his  aunt's  lawyer,  and  it  was  from  him  that  he 
came  to  know  something  of  his  aunt's  affairs;  that  the  sale  of  what 
had  once  been  farm-land  about  the  cottage,  was  her  only  source  of 
revenue. 

"She'll  be  in  a  bad  way  when  she  gets  to  the  end  of  that,"  said 
Wade  rather  indifferentl} . 

"You  mean  she  has  nothing  beyond,  no  investments,  no  in- 
come?" Stephen  asked. 

"Nothing  that  I  know  of.  She's  been  selling  off  lots  for  the  past 
ten  years  whenever  she  needed  money;  luckily  she  hasn't  needed 
much." 

Wade's  explanation  was  offhand  enough,  and  Stephen  was  rather 
offended  by  it.  He  had  all  along  been  sensible  of  a  certain  callousness 
on  the  part  of  his  friend,  which  Wade  with  all  his  shrewdness  either 
could  not  hide,  or  else  did  not  know  existed.  He  wondered  if  this  was 
not  one  of  the  results  of  those  hard  knocks  he  had  probably  received. 

"  I  had  an  idea,  I  don't  know  where  or  how  I  got  it,  that  Uncle 
Jake  was  my  aunt's  lawyer,"  said  Stephen. 

"Used  to  be,"  said  Wade,  jabbing  the  blade  of  his  pen-knife  into 
the  arm  of  his  chair.  They  were  seated  in  his  office,  where  Landray, 
in  his  idleness  and  lack  of  all  occupation  spent  much  of  his  time, 
since  Wade,  too,  was  cursed  with  a  larger  amount  of  leisure  than 
was  wholly  satisfactory  to  him. 

"He's  a  mighty  interesting  man  —  Mr.  Benson,  I  mean  —  no 
matter  who  you  are  or  what  you  are,  sooner  or  later  you're  made  to 
feel  his  importance.  If  you  are  a  poor  man,  the  time  is  certain  to 
come  when  you'll  house  yourself  in  one  of  his  tenements,  with  the 
privilege  of  handing  over  the  rent  each  month  to  old  Gibbs;  if  you 
are  in  business,  it's  pretty  certain  he  can  help  or  hinder  your  schemes. 
There  is  just  one  thing!  Don't  lock  horns  with  him;  those  who  do, 


CHAPTER  FORTY-SIX  415 

go  away  crippled.  He's  a  potent  influence  in  the  life  here,  Steve;  per- 
haps we  don't  analyse  or  realize  it,  but  he  stands  for  the  power  that 
money  gives;  he  is  the  first  and  last  expression  of  that  power  to  most 
of  us." 

"But  he's  very  simple  and  kindly,"  suggested  Stephen. 
"  I  don't  know,  with  so  much  to  say  in  the  affairs  of  his  neigh- 
bours, he'd  hardly  dare  to  be  autocratic;  but  he's  a  great  lawyer, 
for  a  country  lawyer,  he's  really  a  big  man;  there's  no  gainsaying 
that."  Wade  spoke  with  enthusiasm.  "When  he  takes  a  case  now,  he 
picks  and  chooses;  his  fighting  days  are  over,  and  he  is  on  the  winning 
side  or  els<»  out  of  it.  He's  always  been  most  kind  to  me;  first  and 
last  he's  thrown  quite  a  little  practice  my  way." 

"You're  an  energetic  fellow,  Wade,  and  deserve  to  get  on.  They 
can't  say  enough  about  you  at  the  Nortons." 

"They're  mighty  good  to  me  there,"  said  Wade  heartily.  "You 
know,  my  people  not  being  rich  or  important  here  has  made  a  differ- 
ence. There  were  those  who  were  disposed  to  patronize  me.  I  mighty 
soon  let  'em  know  I  wouldn't  stand  for  that,  but  from  the  first,  Mr. 
Norton  and  his  family  just  let  me  know  they  were  plain  friendly. 
"Is  Clara  interesting?"  asked  Stephen  insinuatingly.  Clara  \ 
had  not  yet  met. 

Ben  shot  him  a  shrewd  glance  out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes   tl 
he  centred  his  attention  on  the  knife  with  which  he  was  still  jab 
the  arm  of  the  chair. 

"Well,  yes,"  he  said  hesitatingly. 

"Pretty?" 

"Yes;"  and  the  yes  came  slowly  from  between  slightly  s 

lips.  , 

"She's  younger  than  Elinor?" 

«Yes  —  two  years  —  you'll  like  her,  Landray.     A  slight  but  pei 
ceptible  enthusiasm  was  betraying  itself  in  his  manner.  This  aggra- 
vated Stephen.  Why  should  Wade   want    him  to  like  Clara,  an 

why  shouldn't  he  ? 

"They're  both  nice  girls,"  said  Wade. 

Landray  looked  out  of  the  window  and  said  nothing.  Wade 
saw  fit  to  change  the  subject.  „ 

"I  heard  from  Reddy  the  other  day  —  oh,  yes,  I  told  you. 

"I  liked  Reddy,"  said  Stephen. 

"One  would  have  thought  that  he'd  have  made  fine  practice  fo 
a  lawyer,"  said  Wade,  "but  nothing  of  the  sort  has  happened.  1 


4i 6  THE  LANDRAYS 

spirit  of  prophesy  has  gone  wide  of  the  mark  in  his  case;  he  is  so  suc- 
cessful, in  a  moneyed  sense  I  mean,  that  he's  hardly  gotten  over  the 
surprise  of  it.  He  can't  repress  a  latent  enthusiasm  at  the  thought 
that  he's  Riley  Crittendon,  with  several  thousand  head  of  choice  beef 
cattle  all  his  own.  Perhaps  I  found  him  depressing  because  he's 
gotten  ahead  so  quick." 

"But  you'll  find  perhaps  that  your  point  of  view  will  change  with 
a  little  of  the  same  kind  of  luck,  Ben,"  said  Stephen. 

Wade  shook  his  head. 

"No,  I  don't  know  that  it  will.  I've  always  expected  to  succeed; 
I've  been  impatient  that  I  should  be  kept  out  of  my  own;  but  by  the 
same  token,  I  won't  feel  any  special  enthusiasm  when  I  come  into 
it." 

When  Wade  had  told  him,  as  he  had,  that  much  as  he  de- 
spised society,  still  from  motives  that  always  bore  upon  professional 
gains,  he  found  it  well  worth  his  while  to  keep  in  and  do  the  right 
thing,  Stephen  was  inclined  to  jeer.  Then  he  made  the  discovery 
that  he  was  curiously  involved  with  Wade;  and  realized  that  in  as- 
suming the  burden  of  his  social  destinies  as  he  had  done,  that  thrifty 
fellow  was  still  doing  only  the  right  thing,  and  with  an  eye  single  to 
his  future;  that  somehow  he  was  to  be  made  contributary  to  his  suc- 
cess present  and  to  come,  and  that  it  was  something  more  than  mere 
affection  that  had  prompted  him  to  claim  an  intimacy  on  the  score 
of  their  boyish  friendship. 

"Every  one  wants  to  meet  you,  Steve,"  he  had  once  said. 

"Why?  "Stephen  had  asked. 

"It's  natural,  ain't  it?  First  and  last,  the  Landrays  have  filled  a 
pretty  conspicuous  place  here,  and  then  your  relation  to  Mr.  Benson 
makes  you  interesting  ;  everybody  thinks  you'll  come  into  a  lot  of 
his  money  one  of  these  days,  and  they're  none  of  them  above  wishing 
to  get  next  to  a  potential  millionaire." 

"What  about  your  designs  on  me,  Ben  ?" 

"Oh,  well,  I  guess  whoever  writes  my  epitaph  will  have  to  say, 
'He  never  did  anything  for  nothing.'  At  the  least  I  shall  expect  to  be 
your  lawyer.  My  designs  are  no  more  sinister  than  that." 

Stephen  laughed.  He  rather  liked  him  for  his  candour.  He  felt  that 
the  best  of  Wade  was  his  candour. 

In  spite  of  the  social  obligations  with  which  he  sometimes  accused 
Wade,  in  the  character  of  friend  and  mentor,  with  having  loaded  him 
up,  he  was  oftener  at  the  Nortons  than  at  any  other  house  in  town. 


CHAPTER   FORTY-SIX  41? 

It  was  Elinor  who  drew  him  thither  ;  she  had  attracted  him  from  the 
hour  of  their  first  meeting.  There  were  times  when  he  thought,  when 
indeed  he  was  quite  sure,  she  liked  him.  There  were  also  other  times 
when  he  was  equally  sure  she  did  not. 

He  even  went  so  far  as  to  suspect  Wade  in  some  degree  with  being 
responsible  for  the  vicissitudes  he  suffered  at  her  hands.  He  was 
quite  sure  she  liked  Wade;  and  Wade's  relation  with  her,  as  well  as 
with  her  father  and  mother,  was  that  of  a  close  and  valued  friend. 
He  wondered  if  he  had  not  a  right  to  demand  an  explanation  of  Wade. 
He  did  not  want  to  appear  absurd,  but  if  she  was  in  any  way  bound 
to  him,  he  felt  that  he  should  know  it.  He  made  elaborate  plans  to 
trap  Ben  into  some  sort  of  a  confession  on  this  point,  but  Wade,  ex- 
pert in  evasions,  was  never  trapped.  When  he  avoided  Wade  and 
stole  off  to  the  Nortons  by  himself,  he  invariably  found  him  there; 
sometimes  playing  cards  with  the  banker,  but  more  often  with  Elinor 
at  the  piano.  Stephen  rather  despised  men  who  sang,  and  the  sounc 
of  Wade's  clear  tenor  voice  filled  him  with  disgust. 

"I  haven't  seen  Wade  in  two  days,"  he  told  Elinor  one  night.     Do 
you  know  what's  become  of  him  ?" 
"He  is  out  of  town." 
"He's  terribly  energetic,"  said  Stephen. 
"Don't  you  think  he  has  done  remarkably  well,  Stephen,  t< 
youne  a  man,  and  one  who  has  had  no  help  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  can't  quite  agree  to  that.  It  seems  to  me  that  every  one  does 
help  him;  and  those  who  don't,  he  uses  whether  they  want  to  be  used 
or  not.  Take  your  father,  for  instance,  you  can  hardly  deny  th; 
he  has  done  what  he  could  to  push  Wade;  and  even  Uncle  Jake  seems 
inclined  to  go  out  of  his  way  to  advance  his  interests.  Stephen  was 
not  in  a  frame  of  mind  to  admire  Wade. 

"I  think  you  overstate  the  importance  of  what  others  have  done 
for  him;  his  own  people  have  never  been  able  to  help  him  at  all  and 
now  he  is  doing  what  he  can  for  them;  he  is  gomg  to  educate  his 
,1  " 

"WdH,  he  should  be  glad  of  the  chance;  I  hope  he  don't  make 

""  Evidendy'it  hasn't  made  capital,  as  you  call  it,  with  you,  Stephen. 
I  didn't  know  you  could  be  so  ungenerous." 

"  It  isn't  that,  Elinor,  but  I  am  sure  you  never  say  the  good  things 


of  me  you  find  to  say  of  him."  j 

"  Perhaps  you  don't  give  me  the  occasion  to. 


4i8  THE  LANDRAYS 

"Don't  give  you  the  occasion!  I  am  just  waiting  to  hear  you  launch 
out  in  commendation  of  me!" 

"I  don't  mean  —  " 

"You  don't  mean  what  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  have  no  right  to  criticise  you,"  she  said. 

"I  like  that!"  he  laughed.  "So  I  am  a  fit  subject  for  criticism? 
Well,  I  want  to  be  criticised.  Come  —  it's  a  duty!  Through  neglect 
of  the  proper  functions  of  criticism  there  is  no  telling  how  far  wrong 
I  may  go.  At  home  my  uncle  and  Gibbs  never  say  anything;  affec- 
tion must  dull  the  sight  terribly.  I  am  sure  you  look  at  it  differently, 
you  are  not  blind  to  my  imperfections." 

"Are  you  blind  to  mine  ?" 

"You  haven't  any,  Elinor.  Beyond  your  unwillingness  to  point 
out  to  me  where  I  fail,  they  are  undiscoverable." 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  not  very  serious,  Stephen." 

"I  am  sure  that  if  I  had  your  opinion  of  me  I  should  be  serious 
enough.  I  can  read  whole  volumes  of  adverse  criticism  in  your  eyes." 

"Do  you  really  want  me  to  tell  you  what  I  think  ?" 

"I  do  indeed.  I  have  always  desired  enlightenment  on  that  one 
momentous  subject,  you  will  never  know  the  speculation  it  has  pro- 
voked me  to." 

"But  I  have  no  right  to  judge  you." 

"That  is  what  we  always  say,  but  we  judge  just  the  same." 

"I  wish  you  would  take  an  interest  in  things,  then,  Stephen,  in 
real  things." 

"What  are  the  real  things  that  need  my  attention?" 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  your  life  ?" 

"My  dear  Elinor,  I  expect  it  will  be  what  my  life  does  with  me.n 

"I  hate  to  see  you  drift  so  aimlessly." 

"You'd  equip  me  with  a  purpose,  a  purpose  such  as  Wade  has 
—  to  use  all  his  friends  ?" 

"That  is  very  unjust." 

"I'll  grant  that;  well,  yes,  I  am  drifting,  very  much  so." 

"I  blame  you  for  that  attitude.  Are  you  going  to  compel  nothing, 
are  you  always  going  to  drift  ? " 

"And  so  you  think  I  should  display  more  activity;  but  what 
about,  my  dear  Elinor  ?  Point  out  the  direction  in  which  duty  lies." 

"But  I  cannot  direct  you,  you  must  see  for  yourself." 

"I  wish  you  would  direct  me." 

She  frowned  and  blushed  slightly  at  this. 


CHAPTER  FORTY-SIX  4»9 

"I'd  willingly  resign  all  my  independence  to  you,  Elinor." 
"This  is  nonsense,  Stephen,"  she  said  quickly. 
"You  always  put  me  off  with  that!"  he  said.  "You  know  it's  not 
nonsense!  You  know  I  am  serious.  Help  me  make  something  of 
myself—  shall  I  tell  you  all  this  involves  ?"  he  reached  out,  but  she 
avoided  his  hand.  He  drew  back  ruefully.  There  was  a  moment's 
silence,  then  he  said: 

"There's  one  thing  I'd  like  to  know,  Elinor,  it  s  about  Wade. 
May  I  ask  you?" 

"About  Ben,  what  about  Ben  ?"  she  ?sked. 
"Do  you  care  for  him  ?"  he  demanded  eagerly 
"Yes,  very  much,  but    not  as    you  have    evidently  been    silly 
enough  to  suppose.  How  could  you,  Stephen!  It  is  Clara  he  is  inter- 
ested in.  You  are  not  usually  so  dull." 
"Clara?" 

"They  are  waiting  until  Ben  can  make  a  living.  She  is  very  young. 
I  don't  suppose  mother  would  be  willing  she  should  marry  even  if 
Ben's  practice  was  as  large  now  as  he  seems  to  think  it  will  be  in  two 
or  three  years." 

"Well,  I  think  Ben  might  have  told  me  that!     cried  btepnen. 
"  I  wonder  he  didn't,"  said  Elinor. 

"Elinor,  let  me  tell  you-  . 

"Don't  tell  me  anything,  Stephen,  I  don  t  want  to  hear  n 
said  determinedly,  the  colour  coming  into  her  face. 
"Why  not?" 

"You  are  not  in  a  position  —  "  again  she  came  toan  abrupt   top. 
"To  marry  —  you  would  say  ?  Why  not,  Elinor  ?    ^ 
"Why,  Stephen,  what  have  you  to  offer  a  woman  ? 
"As  much  as  any  man  —  my  love,"  he  said  stoutly. 
"A   eirl   might    accept   that,  and  might  not  care  to  share 
position    you   accept,  of  dependence;"  but  when  she  had   spoken 
she  caught  her  breath  with   a  little  gasp  of  dismay.  She 
not  more  than  she  felt,  but  much  more  than  she  felt  she  had  any 
right  to  say.  "I  mean,  Stephen,  that  while  you  may  be  satisfied  witl 
your  relation  with  Mr.  Benson,  it  might  not  be  so  satisfactory  to  the 
girl  you  marry;  she  would  not  wish  to  feel  dependent. 
"She  needn't,  I  don't  feel  dependent. 
"I  wish  you  did  Stephen;  it  would  be  the  saving  of  you. 
"Thank  you,"  he  laughed  shortly,  for  he  was  taking  a  » 
hurt  from  her  words. 


420  THE  LANDRAYS 

*'I  wish  you  were  not  so  devoid  of  ambition." 

"How  do  you  know  I  am  ?"  he  asked.  "And  frankly,  I  don't  feel 
my  dependence,  as  you  call  it.  Uncle  Jake  has  never  intimated  that 
he  felt  it  either;  so  why  should  I  worry  ?  None  of  you  like  my  uncle; 
Aunt  Virginia  don't,  I  am  aware  of  that;  but  I  do  appreciate  his 
goodness  to  me,  I  try  to  repay  it  as  best  I  can,  in  the  way  most  satis- 
factory to  him.  I've  told  him  I  ought  to  be  doing  something.  I  know 
that;  but  I  suppose  there's  no  hurry;  he  don't  seem  to  think  so, 
anyhow." 

"But  you  can't  be  free  on  that  basis,  Stephen.  Don't  you  see,  if 
you  displeased  him  —  don't  you  see  he  will  always  control  you  ?" 

"Well,  what  of  it  ?  He  is  not  unjust.  He  is  the  most  absolutely  fair 
minded  man  I  ever  knew,  and  kindness  itself.  Look  how  he  tolerates 
old  General  Gibbs!  But  my  aunt's  prejudiced  against  him,  and  you 
reflect  her  feeling  in  the  matter." 

"Aunt  Virginia  never  says  anything  about  Mr.  Benson!  I  don't 
believe  I  ever  heard  her  mention  his  name  ten  times  in  my  life!" 

"No,  but  she  gives  one  more  to  think  about  by  reason  of  what 
she  leaves  unsaid,  than  by  what  she  says.  I've  known  from  the  first 
that  she  didn't  like  him,  and  I  tell  you  candidly,  I  think  her  attitude 
all  wrong,  and  most  unkind.  She's  making  it  so  I  can't  go  there  with 
any  degree  of  comfort;  I'm  always  conscious  of  her  feeling  of  hostil- 
ity. I  fancy  she  would  like  to  see  me  break  with  Uncle  Jake,  but  you 
know  I  never  shall  do  that,  he's  been  too  good  to  me!" 

"He  has  done  nothing  Aunt  Virginia  would  not  have  done  gladly 
if  she  could!" 

"I  am  not  making  any  comparisons,"  he  said,  shrugging  his  shoul- 
ders. "  But  this  is  not  what  we  were  speaking  of  a  moment  ago, 
Elinor." 

"I  told  you  what  I  felt,  and  what  I  thought." 

"That  my  position  of  dependence  was  wholly  displeasing  to  you. 
I've  tried  to  make  you  see  that  I  do  not  regard  it  as  a  position  of 
dependence." 

"Not  for  yourself,  perhaps,  you  are  the  best  judge  of  that;  but 
for  another —  I  should  feel  that  it  was,  and  almost  any  girl  would  do 
the  same.  How  could  it  be  otherwise,  Stephen  ?" 

"You'll  certainly  provoke  me  to  activity  of  some  sort,  Elinor;  but 
heaven  only  knows  how  disastrous  the  results  may  be!  I'll  study  law, 
and  get  Ben  to  take  me  into  his  office!  How  would  Wade  and  Lan- 
dray  look  on  a  large  gilt  sign  ? " 


CHAPTER  FORTY-SIX  421 

"You  are  not  serious." 

"Not  in  the  sense  that  you  are,  but  I  began  life  seriously  enough. 
The  first  year  at  school  I  thought  I'd  die  of  home-sickness.  I  was  the 
most  utterly  wretched  boy  in  the  world;  and  then  I  adjusted  myself 
to  the  situation.  I  decided,  what  was  the  use!  I  learned  to  take  things 
as  they  were." 

"  Don't  you  think  it  was  needlessly  hard  of  Mr.  Benson  to  keep  you 
away  from  Aunt  Virginia  ?" 

"How  can  you  say  he  did  that!  It  was  circumstances  that  kept  me 
away,  that  was  all." 

"But  during  your  vacations  ?" 

"I  was  generally  under  a  tutor  then,  for  I  don't  mind  telling  you  I 
was  not  especially  brilliant;  it  took  a  lot  of  pushing  to  get  me  through, 
and  my  tutors  led  a  dog's  life  of  it  trying  to  cram  me  with  wisdom 
my  mental  stomach  would  reject.  I  fancy  the  scholarship  of  the 
Landrays  was  never  their  strong  point." 

"You  must  have  been  very  lonely  all  those  years." 
"I  was;  and  do  you  wonder  that  I  feel  for  Uncle  Jake  as  I  do, 
that  I  resent  any  slighting  thought  of  him  ?  Why,  he  was  the  only  one 
who  ever  came  to  see  me!" 

"  But  you  must  not  be  unjust  to  Aunt  Virginia.    She  was  feel 
great  pity  for  Virginia.  If  Ben's  mission  proved  fruitful,  Stephen 
would  hold  to  his  faith  in  Benson;  gratitude  and  self-interest  alike 
would  sway  him.  "You  know  we  are  all  devoted  to  Aunt  Virginia 
here,  and  the  least  criticism  of  her—" 

"Have  I  criticised  her?  You  can't  admire  her  more  than  1  do.  1 
only  wish  she  and  Uncle  Jake  hit  it  off  better,  I  feel  somehow  placed 
between  them,  she  makes  me  feel  her  dislike  of  him;  I  m  hurt  by 

it!" 

They  were  silent  again,  and  then  he  said: 

"You  don't    answer  me,  Elinor,  I  don't    know    how  you    i 
toward  me."  n 

"You  must  wait,  something  may  happen. 

"But  nothing  can  possibly  happen  to  change  my  feeling  for  you. 

"You  don't  know,  you  may  be  wiser  in  a  day  or  so;  no    yoi 
must  wait  and  see!  I  have  no  right  to  tell  you,  I  have  no  right  to 
even  hint  at  anything  -  there!  you  must  not  ask  me  to  explain  - 
can't!" 


CHAPTER  FORTY-SEVEN 

WADE  watched  Stephen  furtively  out  of  the  corner  of  his 
eye.  To  his  practical  mind,  partisanship  had  its  price. 
Self-interest  had  always  been  the  paramount  considera- 
tion with  him,  and  he  believed  it  would  be  so  with  Stephen.  He  had 
urged  Virginia  to  act  independently,  but  to  this  she  would  not  hear; 
so  he  had  brought  Stephen  to  her. 

"  I  wish,  Mr.  Wade,"  it  was  Virginia  who  spoke. "  I  wish  you  would 
tell  Stephen  what  it  is  we  have  discovered,  I  think  you  can  make  it 
clearer  to  him  than  I  can." 

Stephen  turned  to  Wade  in  mute  surprise.  He  had  not  understood 
why  his  aunt  had  sent  for  him. 

"Certainly,  if  you  wish  it,  Mrs.  Landray."  Stephen  had  the 
uneasy  feeling  that  something  not  entirely  pleasant  was  about  to 
happen.  Wade  began  by  telling  briefly  of  the  papers  Reddy  had 
sent. 

"Now,  Steve,"  he  said,  "there  was  just  one  curious  fact  that  the 
examination  of  these  papers  revealed.  Among  the  properties  described 
was  a  certain  tract  of  land.  Mrs.  Landray  knew  about  this  land, 
that  her  husband  and  your  grandfather  had  accepted  it  from  a  man 
by  the  name  of  Levi  Tucker  in  part  payment  for  property  in  the 
town  here.  Your  aunt  knew  of  this  first  transaction;  but  her  hus- 
band's memorandum  shows  that  there  must  have  been  a  subsequent 
transfer  by  Tucker.  The  first  transaction  was  for  a  thousand  acres, 
the  second  was  for  the  same  acreage.  This  land  your  aunt  accepted 
in  the  division  of  the  estate  when  your  grandmother  married  a  second 
time.  She  supposed  she  was  getting  a  thousand  acres,  the  records 
show  that  she  actually  received  two  thousand  acres.  This  land  she 
held  for  a  number  of  years,  but  finally  at  Mr.  Benson's  instigation, 
sold  it.  That  is,  to  the  best  of  her  knowledge  she  sold  a  thousand 
acres.  The  records  tell  quite  another  story.  She  deeded  away  two 
thousand  and  some  odd  acres." 

422 


CHAPTER  FORTY-SEVEN  4*3 

At  first  Stephen  had  hardly  comprehended  the  drift  of  Ben's  ex- 
planation. Now  he  wheeled  on  him  with  quick  anger. 

"What  do  you  mean  to  insinuate,  Wade!"  he  demanded. 

"Hold  on,  Steve  —  "  began  Wade  steadily. 

"Don't  Steve  me!"  cried  the  younger  man  hotly.     We  are 

friends  after  this." 

"That  may  be  as  it  may  be,"  said  Wade  grimly,  the  colour  creep- 
•jie  into  his  sallow  cheeks;  "but  you  will  have  to  hear  me  out,  Lan- 
dray  Not  because  it  concerns  me  in  the  least,  but  because  it  is  a  mat- 
ter that  vitally  concerns  your  aunt.  I  didn't  suppose  you  d  like 
hear  what  I'm  going  to  say.  In  your  place,  I  shpuldn  t. 

Stephen  told  Wade  curtly  to  go  on;  he  avoided  looking  in  V 
ginia's  direction.  He  wished  to  spare  her  the  knowledge  of  the  bn 
ness  of  his  feeling  toward  her.  But  Wade's  level  voice  broke  the 
painful  silence,  he   had  carefully  marshalled  his  facts  for  while  he 
believed  he  knew  just  the  stand  Stephen  would  take,  for  the  sake  of 
the  case  itself  he  wished  to  make  the  points  very  clear  to  him;  t 
if  he  desired  to  break  violently  with  his  aunt,  so  much  the  b.     er, 
she  would  have  a  double  motive  for  wishing  to  go  on  with  tl 

He  held  Stephen  with  his  eyes  as  he  piled  up  the  evidence  against 
Benson,  and  Landray's  face  went  red  and  white  by  turns,  for  as 
warmed  to  his  task/Wade's  arraignment  of  the  old  lawyer  became 
Tore  and  more  incisive  and  vicious.  He  dwelt  almost  Passionately  on 
Virginia's  trust  and  confidence  in  Benson,  and  then  he  told  of  the 
sale  of  the  land,  of  the  pittance  she  had  received  for  it,  and  of  Ben- 
son's subsequent  transaction  with  Southerland. 

"And  I've  copies  of  the  records,  Steve,  properly  attested  by  the 
Countv  Cllrk  YOU  can  compare  the  dates."  He  took  the  papers 
Sis  poctt^nd  tossed  thL  on  the  table.  Hardly  knowing  why 
hr  did  it  Stephen  took  them  up  with  shaking  hands. 

"There  ilsome  mistake,"  he  said,  but  his  vo.ce  was  strange  ever 


424  THE  LANDRAYS 

Ben  withdrew  to  the  window.  The  young  fellow  would  have  a  bad 
quarter  of  an  hour  while  he  mastered  the  facts  contained  in  those 
papers,  and  he  was  conscious  of  a  sense  of  placid  satisfaction  at  the 
thought.  Stephen  pored  over  the  papers  with  burning  eyes;  their 
legal  phrasing  obscured  their  real  significance  at  first,  but  in  the  end 
he  was  able  to  grasp  the  facts  that  Wade  wanted  him  to  grasp,  the 
number  of  acres,  and  the  dates  of  the  various  transfers. 

"Well  ?"  he  said,  glancing  up,  and  turning  toward  Wade. 

"Your  aunt  supposed  she  was  selling  one  thousand  acres.  Am  I 
right,  Mrs.  Landray?" 

"Yes,"  said  Virginia,  but  her  eyes  dwelt  yearningly  on  her  nephew, 
though  he  still  avoided  her  gaze. 

"She  received  five  thousand  dollars  for  the  land.  Mr.  Benson  was 
more  fortunate.  He  received  fifty  thousand  dollars  for  it.  Look  at  the 
dates,  you  will  see  that  not  two  weeks  elapsed  between  the  two 
transactions." 

"But  here,  what  about  this  man  Stark  ?"  asked  Stephen,  catching 
at  a  straw. 

"Stark  was  merely  used  as  a  decoy,  your  aunt  never  saw  him. 
That  his  name  appears  only  makes  the  evidence  of  premeditated 
fraud  the  stronger." 

Stephen  winced  at  the  word. 

"You  saw  the  original  —  "  he  was  at  a  loss  for  the  right  word. 

"The  original  entries,  yes."  Wade's  voice  was  hard  and  emo- 
tionless, but  it  rang  with  a  triumph  he  could  not  wholly  repress  or 
deny  himself. 

"And  you  are  sure  that  they  correspond  in  every  particular  — 
the  dates  I  mean  —  with  those  given  in  the  copies  ?"  asked  Stephen. 

"Those  copies  are  correct  in  every  particular,"  said  Wade  shortly. 

"Well,  what  does  it  mean!" 

"It  means,  Steve,  that  Mr.  Benson  tricked  your  aunt  out  of  forty- 
five  thousand  dollars  by  a  most  inartistic  swindle.  It  means  also,  that 
he  bargained  for  a  thousand  acres,  and  took  two." 

"I  don't  believe  it!"  cried  the  young  man  hoarsely.  "There  is 
some  mistake,  it  is  impossible!" 

"Not  unless  dates  and  figures  lie,  Steve." 

"Have  you  seen  Uncle  Jake  ?" 

"Not  yet,  there  is  plenty  of  time  for  that,"  and  Wade  smiled 
evilly. 

"He  can  probably  explain  the  whole  thing  away." 


CHAPTER  FORTY-SEVEN  425 

"Will  you  go  to  him  for  an  explanation  ?"  demanded  Wade  eag- 
erly. He  would  have  liked  that,  it  would  probably  finish  Stephen 
with  the  old  lawyer,  and  force  him  to  side  with  his  aunt. 

"I?  What  do  you  take  me  for?"  exclaimed  Stephen,  and  his 
face  was  white.  "Do  you  think  I'd  so  grossly  insult  him,  do 
you  suppose  for  one  minute  I  could  doubt  him  —  I,  of  all  people, 
when  he  has  conferred  nothing  but  benefits  on  me  all  my  life 

long!" 

"According  to  my  figures  there  is  still  something  due  you  in  the 
shape  of  cash,"  said  Wade  coldly.  "Your  father's  interest  in  that 
thousand  acres." 

"Well,  what  does  that  amount  to?" 

"Very  little,  I  grant  you,  Landray,  but  your  aunt  is  not  related  to 
Mr.  Benson  as  you  are;  she  does  not  feel  under  any  special  obliga- 
tions to  him,  she  considers  that  she  has  been  defrauded  out  of  a 
large  sum  of  money  by  him.  That,  you  must  admit,  is  a  serious  mat- 
ter to  her;  a  matter  she  can't  well  ignore." 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  asked  Stephen  in  a  dry-throate 

whisper.  ,, 

"If  Mrs.  Landray  will  take  my  advice,  she  will  sue  Mr.  ti 

Stephen  looked  helplessly  from  one  to  the  other. 

"You  are  all  wrong!"  he  burst  out  almost  entreatmgly.     1  d  stake 
my  life  on  it!  You'll  find  you  have  no  case;  but  think  of  the  humilia- 
tion to  him,  the  opportunity  for  mean-souled  envy  to  smirch  a  gre 
reputation!" 

Wade  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"He'll  have  a  chance  to  clear  his  reputation  in  the  coi  ts,  h 
come  out  spotless  if  he  is  spotless." 

"Go  to  him  first!"  urged  Stephen.  "Ask  him  to  look  over  thes 
papers  with  you.  Why,  probably  a  word  from  him  will  explain  tl 
whole  thing,  and  make  it  clear  as  day."  . 

"Will  you  do  that,  Landray  ?"  then  he  turned  to 'Virginia.     You 
are  quite  willing  he  should  discuss  this  question  with  Mr.  E 

"Yes." 

But  Stephen  drew  back  from  this.  „ 

"I've  told  you  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  bring  it  to  his  notice 
"I  mean  in  the  most  delicate  way  you  can,  not  forma  ly  a .a 
direct  charge  reflecting  on  his  honesty  Look  here,  Stephen    t  ,  onj 
fair  to  yourself  that  you  should  hear  from  his  own  lips  what  r. 
to  say.  There  is  no  haste,  you'd  better  think  it  over,  I  don  t  doubt 


426  THE  LANDRAYS 

that  you  can  bring  the  thing  to  his  notice  with  less  offence  than 
another." 

"  But  if  Stephen  feels  as  he  does,"  began  Virginia.  She  did  not 
like  the  manner  in  which  Wade  was  forcing  the  matter  upon  him. 

"No,  no,  Aunt  Virginia,  it's  right  enough.  If  you  are  in  doubt 
on  these  points,  they  should  be  made  plain  to  you.  I  am  sure  Uncle 
Jake  will  be  ready  and  anxious  to  explain,  for  his  own  sake  as 
well  as  yours." 

But  Virginia  was  not  so  sure  of  this;  her  conception  of  Benson's 
character  being  quite  different  from  Stephen's.  The  Benson  she  had 
known  and  liked  and  trusted  had  died  long  ago,  and  in  his  place 
stood  a  hard,  tyrannical  man,  a  man  she  confessed  she  did  not  know, 
but  feared.  He  had  sacrificed  Stephen  Landray;  and  he  had  taken 
from  her  Stephen  Landray's  son.  She  owned  to  the  bitterest  feel- 
ing toward  him,  she  wanted  to  see  him  despoiled  and  published  to 
the  world  for  what  he  was.  She  had  no  mercy  for  him.  He  had  done 
the  Landrays  a  monstrous  evil,  and  it  was  right  that  he  should  suffer. 
Her  code  was  simple  and  severe. 

She  put  no  faith  in  those  possible  benefits  that  might  come  to 
Stephen  if  he  remained  friendly  with  him.  She  did  not  believe  for 
one  moment  that  Benson  had  ever,  or  even  now  expected  to  do  for 
Stephen  in  any  large  way.  At  best  the  benefits  he  conferred  smacked 
of  charity  and  gifts,  the  boy's  character  was  being  destroyed  by  his 
indulgence.  But  if  they  could  only  recover  this  money,  it  would  give 
him  a  start  in  life  of  which  he  need  not  be  shamed,  for  it  was  the 
Landray  money,  and  time  and  circumstance  had  wonderfully 
increased  it. 

The  loss  of  Stephen's  affection  and  respect  she  believed  would  be 
but  a  slight  matter  to  Benson;  certainly  the  boy's  father  had  loved 
him  once,  and  he  had  quickly  parted  with  him,  and  apparently 
without  even  a  passing  regret;  it  would  be  the  same  with  this  Ste- 
phen. As  for  the  disgrace,  the  shame  of  exposure,  she  knew  the 
world  too  well  to  suppose  that  the  world's  manifestation  of  scorn 
would  ever  touch  Benson;  the  tangible  evidence  of  his  power  and 
riches  were  too  apparent  for  that;  whatever  men  might  feel  in  secret, 
they  would  not  falter  in  the  external  show  of  respect;  they  would  still 
need  and  desire  his  help  and  countenance  in  their  affairs.  She  did  not 
even  believe  that  Benson  himself  would  suffer.  That  he  could  have 
done  this  thing,  argued  to  her  an  utter  and  astonishing  depravity. 
She  remembered  that  at  the  very  time  when  he  had  bought  the  land, 


CHAPTER  FORTY-SEVEN  427 

he  had  not  ceased  to  declare  his  love  for  her.  She  flushed  hotly  at  the 
recollection.  If  she  could  only  make  Stephen  understand  his  duty  as 
she  saw  his  duty,  all  would  be  well  with  him.  There  would  again  be 
a  Landray  fortune,  the  family  would  again  step  into  its  old  place  of 
importance  in  the  community,  and  the  young  fellow  before  her  would 
be  the  same  sort  of  a  man  his  grandfather  and  her  husband  had  been. 
She  thought  with  bitterness  of  his  father,  and  his  pathetic  failures; 
and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

But  Wade  wished  to  arrive  at  some  definite  conclusion.  If  suit 
was  to  be  brought,  he  wanted  to  know  it  soon. 

"See  here,  Landray,"  he  said,  "you  can't  decide  at  once;  the  matter 
can  rest  for  a  day  or  so,  if  Mrs.  Landray  is  willing,  while  you  make  up 
your  mind." 

Stephen  glanced  at  Virginia.  He  was  incapable  of  feeling  any  very 
great  sympathy  for  her  just  then,  but  he  wanted  to  spare  Benson  if 
he  could.  The  mere  suspicion  they  had  been  seeking  to  implant  in 
his  mind  seemed  as  insulting  as  it  was  untenable.  That  there  was 
any  foundation  for  it,  except  what  might  have  arisen  out  of  the  loss  of 
some  papers  or  through  some  stupid  blunder,  was  too  absurd  for  him 
to  even  entertain.  He  did  not  doubt  Benson's  ability  to  fully  vindicate 
himself.  Now  he  grudgingly  admitted  that  he  might  furnish  such  an 
opportunity  with  less  offence  than  another,  certainly  he  did  not  want 
Wade  to  go  to  him.  Wade  was  too  assertive,  too  sure  of  his  ground, 
too  sure  of  Benson's  trickery.  Mentally  he  sought  to  frame  the  ques- 
tion with  all  the  delicacy,  the  vagueness,  he  could  wish.  He 
quitted  his  chair  by  the  table. 

"I'll  let  you  know  in  a  day  or  two,  whether  or  not  I  can  tell 
Uncle  Jake  of  this,  Aunt  Virginia."  He  ignored  Wade.  He  was 
willing  to  think  that  the  lawyer  might  be  solely  responsible  for  the 
situation. 

"Wait,"  said  Wade,  "I  am  going  your  way,  if  you  will  have  it." 
He  was  determined  not  to  be  snubbed  or  affronted,  and  as  soon  as 
they  were  out  of  the  house  he  said  kindly  and  with  an  air  of  good- 
natured  remonstrance  that  Stephen  could  not  well  resist.  "Look 
here,  Steve,  you  can't  act  this  way  with  me.  I  won't  have  it.  You've 
got  to  be  reasonable.  I've  been  your  friend,  and  I'm  bound  to  remain 
your  friend.  I'm  your  aunt's  lawyer  though,  and  she's  got  a  right  to 
expect  me  to  take  an  interest  in  her  concerns.  If  she  hasn't  me,  whom 
has  she  ?  Not  you,  certainly;  and  you  must  just  bear  this  in  mind, 
it's  an  important  matter  to  her,  for  if  there's  any  chance  of  getting 


428  THE  LANDRAYS 

thirty  or  forty  thousand  dollars  out  of  Benson,  she  can't  afford  to  let 
it  pass,  particularly  as  the  money's  hers.  Don't  you  see  this  ?" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so;  but,  Ben,  this  whole  thing's  absurd,  why, 
you  know  that  Uncle  Jake  could  not  have  done  anything  of  this  kind, 
it's  just  some  mistake." 

"Well,  if  it  is,  he  can  best  explain  it  away,"  said  Wade  encourag- 
ingly. "I  pledge  you  my  word  I  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  in  trying 
to  find  the  mistake,  but  it  baffles  me.  Still  you  never  can  tell,"  he 
added  cheerfully. 

"I'd  stake  my  life  on  it  that  he  never  wronged  anyone — man, 
woman,  or  child!"  cried  Stephen. 

"Ask  him  about  it,"  urged  Wade.  "I  swear  I'd  like  to  see  him 
stand  clear.  I'm  no  harpy;  ask  him,  Steve." 

"I'd  like  to,  that  is  I  feel  it's  my  duty  to,  but  don't  you  see, 
I'm  afraid  of  hurting  him;  I'm  bound  to  him  by  numberless  kind- 
nesses." 

"Of  course  you  are,  and  you  can  put  the  matter  to  him  without 
offence,"  said  Wade  soothingly. 

"If  I  only  thought  I  could!"  said  Stephen.  "If  I  only  thought  I 
could!" 

"Now,  if  I  went  to  him  —  "  began  Wade  meditatively. 

"You  —  you  mustn't!"  interposed  Stephen  shortly. 

"No,  I  suppose  not.  He  might  freeze  up  with  me,  and  I  wouldn't 
stand  for  that.  After  all,  I'm  your  aunt's  lawyer,  and  my  dignity's 
my  client's.  If  I  go  to  him,  I'll  exact  what's  due  me;  it's  not  a  per- 
sonal matter;  really,  I  have  every  reason  to  like  Mr.  Benson."  He 
seemed  so  reasonable,  so  charitable,  that  Stephen's  heart  warmed 
toward  him,  as  Wade  intended  it  should.  "  I  think  you  are  counting  on 
his  being  rather  more  sensitive  than  he  is,  Steve.  He's  been  in  active 
practice  for  a  great  many  years,  and  disagreeable  things  are  always 
cropping  up.  Just  ask  him  about  it  offhand,  in  no  formal  way  you 
understand,  but  make  it  clear  to  him  what  we  have  stumbled  on.  I 
agree  with  you  that  he  should  have  every  chance  to  explain,  we  don't 
want  to  rush  into  litigation  that  is  going  to  make  us  appear  absurd; 
for  I  tell  you  when  we  really  fall  foul  of  Mr.  Benson  it's  going  to  stir 
up  a  hornet's  nest,  it'll  shake  things  loose!" 

"You  mustn't  count  on  me,"  said  Stephen.  "It's  not  that  I'd  be 
making  a  sacrifice,  the  sacrifice  would  be  nothing  in  itself,  but  I 
can't  hurt  him." 

"I  understand  exactly  how  you  feel.  I  don't  want  to  see  you  get 


CHAPTER  FORTY-SEVEN  429 

yourself  involved;  but  I  do  think  that  you  are  the  best  person  to  bring 
this  to  his  notice." 

But  Wade  had  no  illusions  concerning  Benson.  The  explanation 
he  was  urging  Stephen  to  invite,  he  knew  could  explain  nothing;  but 
it  might  bring  about  a  rupture  with  Benson,  and  then  Virginia 
would  have  every  motive  for  beginning  suit  at  once;  and  Wade  saw 
himself  on  the  threshold  of  a  great  career,  his  plodding  shyster  days 
at  an  end. 


CHAPTER  FORTY-EIGHT 

BUT  to  bring  himself  to  the  point  where  he  could  speak  freely 
and  without  reserve  to  Benson,  was  more  difficult  even  than 
Stephen  had  conceived  it  would  be.  With  singular  patience 
and  tact,  Wade  left  him  alone  with  his  purpose,  and  when  they  met, 
carefully  avoided  all  allusion  to  the  half-hearted  promise  Stephen 
had  given  him  that  day  they  left  his  aunt's. 

The  days  wasted,  and  he  did  nothing.  He  would  tell  Benson  some 
evening.  But  for  a  week  Gibbs  was  a  guest  at  dinner  each  night,  and 
the  opportunity  was  denied  him.  His  courage  grew  cold,  his  self- 
imposed  task  became  more  and  more  difficult  as  he  waited. 

The  responsibility  he  had  assumed,  imbittered  him  against  his 
aunt,  and  he  hated  the  very  sight  of  Wade.  Why  had  he  ever  been 
urged  to  this  step!  If  Benson  promptly  turned  him  into  the  street,  it 
would  be  no  more  than  he  might  expect;  certainly  he  should  never 
question  the  justice  of  the  act. 

But  at  last  his  opportunity  came.  They  were  at  last  alone  to- 
gether. Gibbs  had  gone  home  from  the  office,  and  they  had  dined 
by  themselves;  now  was  his  chance.  But  he  was  slow  to  avail 
himself  of  it.  However,  Benson  himself  furnished  him  with  an 
opening.  They  had  left  the  dinner-table  and  were  seated  in  the 
library. 

"Stephen,"  he  said  quietly,  "what  was  it  that  Crittendon  sent 
your  aunt,  have  you  ever  heard  ?" 

Stephen  started. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said. 

"I  didn't  know;  you  never  mentioned  the  matter.  I  trust  your  aunt 
was  not  distressed  on  receiving  the  papers  —  they  were  papers,  were 
they  not  ? " 

"Yes,  papers." 

"A  letter,  perhaps  ?"  said  Benson.  Stephen's  reticence  struck  him 
as  being  odd.  He  glanced  sharply  at  him. 

430 


CHAPTER  FORTY-EIGHT  43, 

"No,  it  was  not  a  letter,"  said  Stephen  slowly.  "Merely  some  bus- 
iness papers. 

Benson  turned  toward  him  quickly. 

"What  is  that  you  tell  me  ?"  he  asked.  "All  of  Stephen  Landray's 
papers  were  in  my  hands." 

"Not  business  in  that  sense,  Uncle  Jake;  accounts  and  memoran- 
dum of  one  sort  and  another." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  Benson  drily. 

"There  is  one  matter  they  don't  quite  understand,"  faltered  Stephen. 

^What's  that?"  asked  Benson. 

"Why,  it  seems  it  is  something  about  a  thousand  acres  of  land," 
he  hesitated. 

"Yes  ?"  said  Benson,  but  his  cheeks  grew  like  white  parchment. 
There  was  a  brief  pause. 

"It  seems" — said  Stephen,  with  stolid  determination  —  "It 
seems  my  grandfather  and  his  brother  owned  some  land  my  aunt 
knew  nothing  about  —  "  he  came  to  a  painful  pause. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Stephen  ?"  asked  Benson  in  his  usual  calm 
voice.  "  She  was  certainly  informed  by  me." 

'No,  she  only  knew  of  one  thousand  acres,  and  it  appears  there 
were  two  thousand." 

"And  I  suppose  your  aunt  does  not  understand,"  said  Benson, 
smiling  faintly. 

Stephen  took  heart  at  this. 

"I  told  them  there  was  some  mistake!"  he  said  impulsively. 

The  lawyer  drew  in  his  breath  sharply. 

"Oh,  it's  that,  is  it;  and  you  told  them  it  was  a  mistake?  Whom 
do  you  mean  by  —  them  ?"  he  added  sharply. 

"Ben  Wade,  and  my  aunt." 

"So  Ben's  advising  her."  Benson  seemed  to  be  making  a  mental 
note  of  this  for  subsequent  reference. 

"He's  been  going  over  the  old  accounts  for  her  —  yes." 

"And  what  do  they  find?"  demanded  Benson  calmly. 

The  young  fellow  looked  at  him  wretchedly. 

"You  can  speak  quite  frankly  to  me,  Stephen,"  he  said  with  dig- 
nity. "In  almost  fifty  years  of  active  practice  this  is  not  the  first  ex- 
planation that  has  been  asked  of  me.  I  am  not  so  sensitive  as  you 
appear  to  think." 

"My  aunt  was  always  under  the  impression,  uncle  Jake,  that  she 
sold  you  only  a  thousand  acres  of  land." 


432  THE  LANDRAYS 

"I  was  not  the  purchaser.  She'd  better  refresh  her  memory  there. 
Stark  bought  the  land,  I  merely  acted  for  her  in  the  matter." 

"She  is  sure  Stark  only  paid  for  a  thousand  acres." 

"The  deed  will  show  what  he  bought,  and  what  she  sold,"  said 
Benson,  with  cold  composure.  "Unfortunately,  Stark  is  dead,  and 
the  land  has  probably  changed  hands  many  times  in  all  these  years; 
but  the  deed  will  show  what  she  sold  —  " 

"The  records  show  that  she  sold  two  thousand  acres." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ? " 

"I  have  seen  the  copies." 

"Humph!  They  have  sent  for  those  ?" 

"Yes." 

Benson  meditated  in  silence  for  a  moment. 

"It's  a  great  pity  your  aunt's  acquaintance  with  her  own  affairs 
should  have  been  so  imperfect,  but  perhaps  I  should  have  seen  that 
every  point  was  clear  to  her  mind.  Since  the  records  show  that  she 
sold  two  thousand  acres,  it  is  quite  evident  she  parted  with  all  the 
land  she  owned  in  Belmont  County;  and  Stark  is  dead;  however,  I 
blame  myself  for  the  obscurity  which  seems  to  have  surrounded  the 
transaction.  I  will  take  on  myself  the  responsibility  of  seeing  that 
she  is  satisfied,  though  I  admit  no  legal  claim,  I  was  merely  her 
lawyer.  In  the  morning  I  will  send  her  check  in  payment  for  this 
thousand  acres  which  she  thinks  she  did  not  sell,  but  which  accord- 
ing to  the  records  Stark  seems  to  have  bought.  It  is  hardly  worth 
while  to  enter  into  a  dispute  about  so  trivial  a  matter.  Stark  paid 
five  thousand  dollars,  as  your  aunt  supposed,  for  a  thousand 
acres;  I  will  send  her  a  like  sum  for  the  other  thousand." 

Stephen  gulped  a  great  free  breath.  This  was  a  simple  dignified 
solution  of  the  whole  difficulty,  but  in  the  same  breath  he  remem- 
bered that  it  was  not  five  thousand  but  forty-five  thousand  dollars  / 
than  his  aunt  expected  to  recover.  How  was  he  going  to  explain  this 
to  Benson.  He  sat  staring  blankly  at  the  carpet  at  his  feet. 

"I  think"  —  and  the  lawyer's  voice  was  frigid,  while  a  thin  smile 
relaxed  his  shaven  lips  —  "I  think  Ben  Wade  will  find  I  am  not  to 
be  trifled  with  in  this  manner.  I  have  been  disposed  to  think  well  of 
him  in  the  past.  I  trust  I  shall  be  able  to  make  my  displeasure  suffi- 
ciently evident  in  the  future." 

But  Stephen  said  nothing  to  this,  he  was  not  caring  just  then 
what  happened  to  Wade.  Benson's  resentment  and  displeasure 
could  take  what  form  it  might  there,  it  mattered  not  to  him. 


CHAPTER  FORTY-EIGHT  433 

"Certainly  I  have  no  explanation  to  offer,"  said  the  lawyer  haugh- 
tily. "For  many  years  I  managed  your  aunt's  affairs  to  the  best  of 
my  ability;  she  is  a  troublesome,  a  dangerous,  and  an  ungrateful 
woman.  Yet  I  hold  Wade  responsible;  of  course,  he  is  back  of  the 
whole  agitation." 

But  Stephen's  silence,  and  Stephen's  face,  which  spoke  plainly 
of  his  utter  misery,  distressed  Benson  more  than  he  could  have 
thought  possible.  He  had  no  feeling  of  resentment  toward  Stephen, 
but  he  wanted  to  hear  him  speak,  to  hear  him  declare  himself;  he 
longed  to  hear  him  say  generously  that  his  confidence  and  affection 
were  unshaken.  For  years  he  had  felt  entirely  self-sufficient;  he  had 
desired  nothing  of  any  man;  but  now  he  found  that  he  was  suddenly 
hungry  for  these  expressions  of  trust  and  love.  The  loneliness  of  his 
life  came  back  and  smote  him.  He  was  growing  old,  and  only  Stephen 
had  brought  youth  to  his  door.  Did  the  boy  doubt  him  ?  In  his  first 
feverish  impulse  to  bind  him  to  him  at  any  price,  he  was  almost 
tempted  to  tell  him  the  whole  truth,  of  his  love  for  Virginia  Lan- 
dray,  that  so  base  a  motive  as  that  of  gain  had  never  entered  into  his 
mind,  but  this  he  put  aside  as  a  momentary  weakness.  He  would  not 
offer  any  explanation  to  any  one,  but  in  the  morning  he  would  send 
for  Wade,  and  pay  for  that  land,  this  done,  he  would  have  saved 
himself  with  dignity  and  self-respect,  and  he  would  have  saved  him- 
self in  the  boy's  eyes.  And  then  he  thought  of  the  price  he  had  received 
for  the  land,  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment  he  had  quite  overlooked 
this  point.  Was  it  possible  that  Wade  had  carried  his  investigation  as 
far  as  that!  He  could  believe  that  once  started  he  would  go  to  the 
bottom  of  things.  He  remembered  to  have  heard  Stephen  tell  Gibbs 
only  the  night  before  that  Wade  had  been  out  of  town  for  a  day  or 
two  recently.  Very  white  of  face  he  turned  to  Stephen,  who  met  his 
glance  miserably  enough,  and  with  a  mute  appeal. 

"Go  on!"  he  commanded  harshly.  "What  more  have  you  to  tell 
me?" 

"There's  something  about  the  price  you  got  for  that  land,"  said 
the  young  man  huskily. 

Benson  shook  his  head. 

"You'll  have  to  be  more  explicit,  Stephen,"  he  said  cautiously; 
"and  you  seem  to  have  forgotten  that  I  have  just  told  you  Stark 
bought  that  land." 

"They  say  he  transferred  it  to  you." 

"Subsequently  he  did,  but  that  is  neither  here  nor  there.  It  was 


434  THE  LANDRAYS 

my  privilege  to  buy  it  from  Stark  if  I  wished  to."  He  smiled  almost 
tolerantly.  "I  hope  your  friend  Ben  Wade  does  not  dispute  my  right 
in  that  particular." 

"He  seems  to  think  that  Stark  merely  acted  for  you;  that  you 
were  the  actual  purchaser." 

"That  is  the  merest  conjecture,  Stephen.  I  must  say  that  Ben's 
imaginative  faculty  is  well  developed."  He  was  feeling  tolerably 
secure  again,  evidently  Wade  had  not  gone  as  deep  as  he  had  at 
first  feared  was  the  case.  But  Stephen's  next  words  undeceived  him. 

"I  haven't  made  it  clear  to  you,  Uncle  Jake,"  he  said,  in  a  low 
voice.  "But  Ben  asserts  that  you  sold  the  land  for  fifty  thousand 
dollars,  that  you  induced  Aunt  Virginia  to  sell  it  by  representing 
that  it  was  valueless  —  or  nearly  so." 

Stephen  felt  that  the  worst  was  over  with;  now  Benson  knew  all 
that  he  knew.  He  did  not  look  at  him,  he  could  not  meet  his  glance. 
There  was  a  long  pause,  then  Benson  said  slowly. 

"To  have  handed  over  five  thousand  dollars  was  one  thing,  I 
might  do  that  to  save  myself  from  possible  annoyance;  but  when 
they  talk  of  sums  like  this,  I  am  not  so  sure  that  my  first  idea  was  not 
a  mere  weakness."  He  rose  from  his  chair.  "Good-night,  Stephen.  I 
think  I  will  go  to  my  room."  He  made  an  uncertain  step  toward  the 
door,  and  Stephen  sprang  to  his  side. 

"For  God's  sake,  don't  think — don't  think —  "  he  could  not 
bring  himself  to  say  it.  It  was  like  a  fresh  insult  to  this  hurt  man. 

"What  am  I  not  to  think?"  asked  Benson. 

"That  I  knew  anything  of  this  until  they  sent  for  me!  They  wanted 
me  to  tell  you,  and  I  agreed,  I  thought  it  would  be  less  painful  to 
you  if  you  heard  it  from  me,  otherwise  Wade  — ' 

"Wade!  That  scum!  That  scoundrel!  He'd  better  keep  out  of  my 
way!"  cried  the  old  man,  his  eyes  blazing. 

"I  told  them,"  Stephen  hurried  on,  "that  they  were  mistaken." 

"You  were  right,  Stephen,  they  are  mistaken  —  but  the  ingrati- 
tude of  it!"  he  stumbled  weakly  toward  the  door. 

"Let  me  go  with  you  to  your  room!"  cried  Stephen,  with  a  sudden 
feeling  of  great  tenderness,  but  Benson  waved  him  away  with  a 
tremulous  hand. 

"Good-night,"  he  murmured  in  a  broken  voice,  and  went  from 
the  room. 

Stephen  heard  his  slow  step  in  the  hall,  his  slow  step  as  he  mounted 
the  stairs,  and  knew  that  he  was  clinging  weakly  to  the  hand-rail  as 


CHAPTER  FORTY-EIGHT  435 

he  climbed.  He  threw  himself  down  in  his  chair.  He  had  done  all 
they  had  demanded  of  him;  and  he  felt  that  in  doing  this  he  had 
dealt  a  mortal  blow  to  the  man,  who  more  than  any  other,  claimed  his 
love  and  faith.  In  that  moment  of  shame  and  great  bitterness,  he 
hated  his  aunt,  he  hated  Wade,  even  as  he  hated  and  despised 
himself. 

But  what  if  Benson  offered  no  explanation,  what  if  he  refused 
to  see  Wade  or  his  aunt;  and  he  believed  him  capable  of  some  such 
course  of  action;  the  hideous  thing  would  have  to  go  forward;  his 
aunt  would  be  urged  on  by  Wade's  implacable  zeal.  He  sunk  hi 
head  in  his  hands,  and  endeavoured  to  think  of  some  way  in  which 
matters  could  be  adjusted.  He  had  confidently  expected  Benson  to 
offer  an  explanation  that  would  be  full  and  conclusive,  and  show  lu- 
minously the  utter  futility  of  further  action;  but  he  had  not  done  this. 

"He  knows  it  is  not  necessary  with  me,"  the  boy  thought  gener- 
ously. "He  knows  just  where  I  stand."  Yet  he  was  far  from  satisfied. 
Benson  owed  it  both  to  himself  and  to  his  aunt,  to  explain  the  whole 
circumstance  of  the  sale  of  the  land,  and  his  part  in  it;  otherwise, 
and  the  conviction  made  him  sick  and  dizzy,  his  aunt's  only  course 
would  be  to  take  the  case  into  the  courts,  and  there  force  the  explan- 
ation from  him  that  he  was  unwilling  to  make.  He  thought  he  under- 
stood Benson's  pride,  and  his  sense  of  offended  honour;  he  could 
sympathize  with  him  here  fully,  but  he  felt  that  it  was  not  wise  to 
preserve  silence  in  the  face  of  these  charges;  he  must  be  made  to  see 
this;  in  the  morning  when  he  was  calmer  and  less  shaken  by  his 
emotion  he  would  himself  tell  him. 

And  in  the  morning  Benson  ate  his  eggs  and  toast,  and  drank  his 
coffee,  in  placid  dignity  and  apparently  at  peace  with  all  the  world, 
but  under  his  calm  of  manner  there  lurked  an  austerity  that  warned 
Stephen  that  he  must  not  revive  the  subject  of  the  preceding 
evening.  . 

Benson  was  in  haste  to  quit  the  house,  and  Stephen  finished  his 
breakfast  with  no  companion  but  his  own  troubled  thoughts.  He  felt 
the  need  of  some  one  with  whom  he  could  talk,  and  decided  that 
he  would  see  Wade  at  once  and  tell  him  what  had  happened.  He 
wanted  to  learn  what  Ben  would  do  now  that  Benson  had  declined 
to  make  any  explanation. 

Early  as  it  was,  he  found  Wade  at  his  office,  but  he  had  evidently 
not  taken  up  the  business  of  the  day  for  he  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves 
and  smoking  a  cob  pipe;  his  feet  rested  on  the  corner  of  his  desk, 


436  THE  LANDRAYS 

and  his  chair  was  comfortably  tilted  at  a  convenient  angle.  When 
Stephen  entered  the  room,  the  unusual  gravity  of  his  aspect  told 
Wade  that  he  had  a  purpose  in  his  call,  and  he  guessed  the  purpose. 
He  brought  his  feet  down  with  a  thud  to  the  floor,  and  slewed  his 
chair  around  until  he  faced  his  caller. 

"Well,  what's  wrong,  Landray  ?"  he  asked  briskly.  "First  though 
make  yourself  comfortable,  will  you  smoke  ?" 

"Everything's  wrong,"  said  Stephen  shortly,  as  he  threw  himself 
down  in  a  chair. 

"You've  had  your  little  talk  with  Benson  then?"  said  Wade 
quickly. 

"Yes." 

"How  do  you  stand  with  him  now  ?" 

"How  should  I  stand?"  demanded  Stephen  indignantly. 

"Oh,  he  took  what  you  had  to  say  in  good  part,  did  he  ?  Well,  I'm 
glad  of  that,  Steve." 

"Certainly,"  said  Stephen. 

"Well,  I  am  glad,"  said  Wade.  "Just  before  you  came  in  I  was 
thinking —  it  hadn't  occurred  to  me  before  —  that  in  asking  you  to 
bring  this  matter  to  his  notice,  we  were  requiring  too  much  of  you. 
You  see,  it  might  have  prejudiced  your  own  interests  with  him,"  He 
glanced  sharply  at  Stephen.  "But  it  didn't." 

"No,"  said  Stephen  drily.  "It  didn't." 

"Well,  I  am  glad,"  repeated  Wade,  in  a  tone  of  hearty  good-will. 
"I  suppose  you  have  something  to  tell  me.  What's  he  going  to  do  ?" 
he  added. 

"So  far  as  I  know —  nothing." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  he  is  going  to  try  and  ignore  us  ?  Do 
you  mean  to  tell  me  he  has  no  explanation  to  offer?"  said  Wade 
vehemently. 

"I  don't  think  you'll  ever  get  a  word  out  of  him,"  said  Stephen. 

"You  don't!  Oh,  yes,  I  will,"  said  Wade  easily.  "  I  bet  I  get  a  good 
many  words  out  of  him  before  I'm  done  with  him.  He  can't  ignore  me, 
for  I've  no  notion  of  being  ignored!  A  dignified  silence  won't  work 
with  me.  But  it's  pretty  clear  that  the  reason  he  wants  to  keep  quiet 
is  because  there  is  nothing  he  can  say.  You  don't  want  to  think  it, 
and  maybe  you  can't  —  but  it's  as  clear  a  case  of  fraud  as  one  would 
want  to  see.  Now,  I  know  Jake  Benson,  and  if  there  was  anything  he 
could  say,  he'd  say  it  fast  enough;  he'd  never  run  the  risk  of  his  com- 
ing to  trial,  not  for  one  minute  he  wouldn't!  You  are  sure  he  feels 


CHAPTER  FORTY-EIGHT  437 

all  right  toward  you  ? "  he  gazed  into  his  friend's  face  with  a  com- 
prehensive eye. 

"No,  he  doesn't  blame  me,"  Stephen  assured  him  wearily. 

"I  suppose  it's  me,"  said  Wade  grinning.  It  pleased  his  vanity  to 
realize  that  he  had  suddenly  become  of  importance  to  Benson.  It 
raised  him  pleasantly  in  his  own  estimation. 

"Yes,  it's  you.  He  blames  you  altogether." 

"But  it's  quite  wrong  of  him  to  have  any  personal  feeling — I 
haven't,  you  know.  I  suppose,  though,  he's  had  that  money  so  long 
he  thinks  he  ought  to  be  let  alone  to  enjoy  it  for  the  rest  of  his  days. 
Well,  I'm  sorry  for  the  old  gentleman;  it's  hard  lines;  but  don't  it 
beat  all  how  these  things  round  in  on  a  fellow  ?  You  think  the  skele- 
ton's laid  away,  and  then,  by  golly!  it  takes  on  flesh  and  stalks 
out  of  your  closet  with  the  bloom  of  youth  on  its  cheeks,  and  ready 
to  play  hell  with  you!" 

Stephen  stared  gloomily  at  him. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  next  ?"  he  asked  at  last. 

"Why,  get  the  thing  to  trial  as  soon  as  I  can,"  said  Wade  briskly. 
"Look  here,  I've  got  the  complete  record  of  the  transaction,  not 
a  paper  missing.  You  may  as  well  look  it  over;  it  shows  up 
strong.' 

"No,"  said  Stephen  shortly. 

"Suppose  you  tell  me  just  how  the  matter  came  up,  and  what  he 
said.  I  promise  you  I'll  use  nothing  of  what  you  say." 

Stephen's  cheeks  reddened  angrily. 

"I  thought  this  was  a  matter  of  mutual  confidence,"  he  said 

haughtily. 

"Well,  so  it  is,  that's  what  I  say,  but  I'd  like  to  bet  that  Ben- 
son said  nothing  that  would  be  of  any  use  to  anybody.  But  I  under- 
stand just  how  you  feel,  and  frankly,  I  don't  see  how  you  can  afford 
to  take  sides  with  us.  I  am  trying  to  make  your  aunt  see  this,  but  she 
will  only  see  that  you  are  a  Landray,  and  that  this  is  a  holy  war  we 
are  going  to  wage  against  Benson  for  the  recovery  of  the  Landray 
fortune.  For  the  money  itself  as  money,  I  don't  think  she  cares  the 
snap  of  her  finger;  and  if  you'll  believe  me,  Steve,  she's  doing  the 
whole  thing  for  you!" 

"For  me!"  cried  Stephen. 

"For  you.  She  has  no  confidence  in  Benson,  you  see,  and 
doesn't  think  he  will  ever  do  anything  for  you,  so  she's  going  to  take 
care  of  your  future.  She's  a  remarkable  character;  her  motives  are 


438  THE  LANDRAYS 

as  plain  and  straight  as  a  string;  no  ins  and  outs  to  her  mental 
processes!" 

"Do  you  think  I  could  induce  her  to  drop  the  whole  affair  right 
here  and  now  ?"  demanded  Stephen  eagerly. 

"Not  if  I  can  balk  you,"  said  Wade,  with  simple  candour.  "Steve, 
if  this  thing  goes  through  I'll  be  building  one  of  those  dinky  little 
Queen  Anne's  up  along  side  of  Norton's  big  house.  He's  got  a  vacant 
lot  he  ain't  going  to  want,  and  it's  at  my  disposal  the  minute  I'm 
ready  to  build.  Elinor  says  she's  told  you  all  about  Clara.  Wait  until 
you  see  her! — there  is  a  girl!"  he  sucked  at  his  pipe  with  smiling 
wistful  lips.  "Don't  you  take  a  hand  in  this  and  spoil  my  little  ro- 
mance! I've  had  a  hell  of  a  hard  row  to  hoe,  and  old  Benson  won't 
mind  the  loss  of  forty  or  fifty  thousand  dollars  once  he  familiarizes 
himself  thoroughly  with  the  idea;  and  I'm  not  alone  in  wanting  to  see 
the  thing  pushed  for  all  there  is  in  it.  Mrs.  Walsh  and  the  Nortons  are 
tremendously  anxious  to  see  your  aunt  get  the  best  of  Benson  "  —  he 
chuckled  at  some  memory-  "Mrs.  Walsh  thinks  it  would  be  lovely 
for  her  to  get  all  that  money  —  I  heard  her  say,  'You  know  you  need 
it,  Virginia,  and  deserve  it.'  And  look  here,  Steve,  your  aunt's  got 
nothing  much  to  anticipate  in  the  way  of  money  unless  she  sells  her 
cottage  and  rents  or  buys  a  cheaper  place.  You're  inteiested  in  Benson. 
Now,  try  and  see  her  side  of  it,  too.  I  understand  she  did  everything 
she  could  for  your  father;  and  you  owe  her  something  on  his  account, 
just  as  you  owe  Benson  something  on  your  own  account.  Now,  I've 
looked  into  Benson's  affairs  as  far  as  I  cou'd,  and  I've  learned  some 
things  about  him  that  are  not  generally  known.  In  the  first  place, 
when  your  grandfather  Thomas  Benson,  failed  in  business,  Benson 
was  involved  with  him.  From  what  I  can  learn  I  understand  that  he 
was  pretty  nearly  ruined,  and  that  he  came  out  of  the  failure  up  to 
his  neck  in  debt.  It  was  at  this  critical  moment  in  his  fortunes  that  he 
got  hold  of  that  land.  The  price  he  got  for  it  put  him  on  his  feet;  he 
was  shrewd  and  he  was  fortunate  in  all  his  investments.  That  was 
the  beginning  of  his  great  wealth.  Of  course,  he's  been  kind  to  you; 
one  step  in  the  wrong  direction  don't  prove  that  a  man's  soul  is  sown 
to  corruption;  but  the  way  I  look  at  it,  it  was  really  your  aunt's 
money  you  have  been  spending.  That  he  was  able  to  be  generous  to 
you,  must  have  been  a  sort  of  sop  to  his  conscience." 

Stephen  writhed  in  his  chair.  Wade,  seeking  to  palliate  and  ex- 
plain Benson's  wrong  doing  was  more  painful  than  Wade  denounc- 
ing him  for  it,  for  his  argument  seemed  born  of  the  gospel  of  expedi- 


CHAPTER  FORTY-EIGHT  439 

ency;  and  what  Stephen  saw  in  the  situation,  Wade,  thick-skinned 
and  callous,  with  a  shrewd  intelligence  that  he  had  developed  at 
the  expense  of  all  finer  feeling,  did  not  see  even  vaguely.  He  was 
remote  from  spiritual  consciousness  of  any  sort;  he  dwelt  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  unrelated  facts. 

"I've  gotten  all  the  points  your  aunt  can  give  me,"  said  Wade. 
"And  I've  heard  from  Southerland,  who  seems  ready  enough  to 
help  us.  He  came  here  to  make  his  first  offer  for  the  land.  He  wanted 
to  pick  it  up  cheap,  but  Benson  wouldn't  have  it.  He  went  on  and  saw 
the  land  himself,  saw  there  was  coal  on  it;  then  he  told  your  aunt  he 
had  found  a  buyer  for  it  and  on  behalf  of  this  buyer  offered  five  thou- 
sand dollars;  mind  you,  he  was  her  legal  representative  at  the  time; 
she  had  absolute  confidence  in  him.  He  told  her  the  land  was  of  no 
value,  and  urged  her  to  sell.  Your  aunt  always  supposed  the  sale  was 
made  to  Stark,  but  Stark  never  actually  held  the  land;  he  at  once 
turned  it  over  to  Benson,  who  was  then  ready  to  do  business  with 
Southerland.  Is  this  clear  to  you  ?" 

It  was  horribly  clear  to  Stephen.  These  facts  that  Wade  had  gath- 
ered, could  only  point  to  one  thing.  Wade  continued: 

"I've  looked  over  the  old  records  here,  of  that  time,  and  I  find  that 
Benson  held  not  a  single  unencumbered  piece  of  property;  but  within 
a  few  weeks  of  the  transaction  with  Southerland  he  began  to  clear 
things  off;  and  from  that  time  on,  the  records  are  thick  with  transfers 
of  real  estate  to  him.  I  venture  to  say,  that  but  for  that  money  he 
wouldn't  be  worth  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  to-day.  Of  course, 
I'm  outside  the  strictly  legal  aspects  of  the  case,  but  I  want  to  know 
my  ground,  and  you  and  I,  Stephen,  are  bound  to  consider  the  matter 
with  a  dash  of  sentiment  thrown  in.  Of  course  we  can  realize  just  how 
great  a  temptation  had  presented  itself  to  him.  Your  aunt  had  no  one, 
she  trusted  him  absolutely;  your  father  was  in  the  army,  he  was  not 
a  man  of  any  wide  business  experience  and  there  was  nothing  to  fear 
from  him.  Benson  had  convinced  your  aunt  that  the  land  was  worth- 
less, and  that  she  had  better  get  out  of  it  what  she  could.  The  game 
played  itself,  and  he  had  the  strongest  motives  for  dishonesty.  Such 
an  opportunity  could  not  have  come  at  a  time  when  he  would  have 
been  more  likely  to  use  it  to  his  own  advantage." 

"How  do  you  know  all  this  ?"  demanded  Stephen,  astonished  at 
the  array  of  facts  Wade  had  gathered. 

"The  old  records  at  the  court-house,  what  your  aunt  remembers, 
and  then  my  father  learned  his  trade  in  the  old  Benson  shops,  and 


440  THE  LANDRAYS 

knows  a  good  deal  about  your  grandfather's  failure;  and  I've  picked 
up  a  good  deal  in  talk  about  town." 

In  spite  of  himself  conviction  was  fastening  itself  upon  Stephen, 
just  as  Wade  intended  it  should.  These  facts  —  many  of  them  outside 
the  cognizance  of  the  law,  as  he  knew  —  Ben  had  gathered  solely  for 
his  benefit.  To  Stephen  the  situtation  took  on  tragic  and  awful  pos- 
sibilities. The  justice  that  his  aunt  demanded,  found  an  echo  in  his 
own  heart.  But  there  was  Benson,  the  man  who  had  done  every- 
thing for  him,  who  had  denied  him  nothing,  who  had  been  a  father 
to  him.  He  would  have  liked  to  escape  from  the  whole  miserable 
tangle,  but  there  was  no  escape  for  him,  and  it  was  apparent  to  him 
that  he  would  either  have  to  sacrifice  his  aunt  or  Benson. 

He  quitted  his  chair  and  fell  to  pacing  the  floor,  and  as  he  tramped 
to  and  fro,  Wade's  relentless  logic,  the  logic  of  stubborn  facts  and 
figures,  poured  in  a  steady  stream  into  his  ears. 

Then  Wade  went  into  the  purely  legal  aspects  of  the  case.  He  told 
Stephen  just  what  he  hoped  to  do,  and  how  he  hoped  to  do  it.  Per- 
haps this  was  not  entirely  discreet,  but  the  case  he  saw,  with  its  spec- 
tacular and  dramatic  possibilities,  was  like  wine  to  him,  it  loosed 
his  tongue  and  made  him  reckless. 

At  last  Stephen  paused  in  his  walk  to  say, 

"But  you  don't  imagine,  do  you,  that  Mr.  Benson  will  remain  in- 
active ?  Suppose  he  comes  forward  with  facts  that  offset  your  facts." 

Wade  shook  his  head. 

"He  can't  do  it,  Steve.  We've  run  him  to  earth,  and  he  knows  it. 
The  game  played  itself  for  him,  and  now  it's  playing  itself  for  us." 


CHAPTER  FORTY-NINE 

THE  position  Benson  had  taken  and  which  he  was  evidently 
determined  to  maintain,  was  inexplicable  to  Stephen.  He 
was  absolutely  silent  on  this  matter  that  had  become  of  vital 
significance.  He  never  alluded  to  it,  and  he  never  permitted  Stephen 
to  allude  to  it  in  his  presence.  His  whole  manner  toward  him,  how- 
ever, was  one  of  increasing  kindness  and  affection,  dependence  even; 
and  Stephen  often  encountered  his  gaze,  wistful  and  searching,  fixed 
upon  him  as  if  he  were  seeking  to  read  his  thoughts.  Beyond  this 
there  was  no  change  that  he  could  discern;  yet  there  was  a  change, 
for  Gibbs  said  to  him  one  day. 

"What's  the  matter  with  your  Uncle  Jake,  Steve  ?  Will  you  tell  me 
what's  got  into  him  ?" 

"Matter!"  repeated  Stephen  doubtfully.  "Nothingthat  I  know  of." 

"He's  a  mass  of  nerves.  I  don't  seem  able  to  please  him  with  any- 
thing I  do;  I  wonder  if  he's  sick.  Why  don't  he  take  a  rest  ?  That 
office  will  be  the  death  of  him!  He's  grinding  his  soul  out  in  the  hunt 
for  dollars  —  it's  growing  on  him;  and  he's  getting  awful  cranky! 
Why,  only  yesterday  I  said  something  about  Ben  Wade,  and  he 
flared  up  in  my  face,  just  went  all  to  pieces.  Do  you  reckon  Wade 
has  offended  him  ?" 

"I  guess  not,"  said  Stephen  evasively.  He  meditated  on  what 
Gibbs  had  told  him.  Then  Benson  was  suffering,  and  suffering 
keenly.  He  was  hiding  it  from  him,  but  at  the  office  he  had  not  been 
able  to  do  this,  and  poor  old  Gibbs  thought  it  was  overwork. 

Stephen  had  kept  away  from  his  aunt,  he  had  kept  away  from 
Elinor;  in  spite  of  a  consuming  desire  to  know  what  they  were  doing, 
thinking,  saying,  he  was  quite  cut  off  from  them.  He  harked  back 
and  forth  over  those  points  Wade  had  marshalled  for  his  benefit,  and 
in  the  end  it  became  as  impossible  to  think  that  a  hard-headed  fel- 
low like  Ben  could  be  mistaken,  as  it  was  to  think  that  he  could 

possibly  be  right  in  this  particular  instance. 

441 


442  THE  LANDRAYS 

Wretched  days  passed  in  uncomfortable  companionship  with  his 
own  thoughts.  At  last  it  was  not  to  be  longer  borne.  He  must  see  and 
talk  with  some  one.  Wade  had  told  him  that  the  Nortons  were  wholly 
in  his  aunt's  confidence;  he  would  see  the  banker  and  get  his  opin- 
ion. He  had  the  utmost  respect  for  his  judgment.  He  wondered  he 
had  not  gone  to  him  before.  , 

He  went  down  to  the  bank,  but  it  was  already  late  in  the  afternoon 
and  Norton  had  left  for  home.  He  would  not  be  back  that  day. 
Stephen  went  at  once  to  the  house,  where  Norton  received  him  with 
frank  cordiality;  and  Stephen  felt  his  heart  flow  toward  him.  Here 
was  a  sane  and  reasonable  judgment  on  which  he  felt  he  could  rely. 

"I  was  asking  Wade  only  last  night  where  you'd  hidden  yourself 
away,  Stephen.  Come  in,"  said  Norton,  for  Stephen  had  paused 
irresolutely  at  the  door,  and  he  led  the  way  into  the  house. 

"I  suppose,"  began  Stephen,  when  they  were  seated,  "that  you 
have  heard  about  Wade's  discoveries." 

"Yes,  certainly,  rather  sensational,  too.  Upon  my  word,  I  was  in 
a  muddle  for  days  after  they  told  me  of  them." 

"Of  course,  I  don't  need  to  ask  how  Mrs.  Norton  feels  in  the  matter.'* 

"You  don't,  Stephen.  My  wife  agrees  with  her  mother,  and  her 
mother  agrees  with  Mrs.  Landray.  She  always  has  and  she  always  will." 

"I  suppose  then,  the  facts,  if  we  are  to  consider  them  facts,  are 
as  well  known  to  you  as  they  are  to  me." 

"Probably,  yes.  They  are  hard  to  go  back  of,  Stephen,"  said 
Norton,  with  grave  kindness. 

"What  are  they  going  to  do  ?"  asked  Stephen. 

"I  suppose  it  will  mean  a  lawsuit;  it  certainly  will  if  Wade  can 
bring  it  about.  Have  you  seen  your  aunt  ?" 

"Not  recently." 

"I  think  you  should,  Stephen." 

"Well,  perhaps;  but  look  here,  either  I  must  stop  this  thing  coming 
to  trial,  or  I  must  leave  Uncle  Jake's  house.  I  think  if  I  asked  her  to, 
my  aunt  would  drop  the  whole  matter;  and  if  I  remain  in  my  present  re- 
lation with  Uncle  Jake,  I  feel  it's  my  duty  to  ask  her  to  do  this.  And  if  I 
don't,  it's  my  duty  to  leave  him.  Now  I  can't  well  ask  her  to  abandon 
what  may  mean  a  comfortable  fortune  to  her;  something's  due  her." 

"Very  much  is  due  her,"  said  the  banker  decidedly. 

"Well,  yes,"  admitted  Stephen.  "  But  see,  it's  not  that  I  fear  to  lose 
any  benefits  that  some  day  may  come  to  me  from  Uncle  Jake,  I 
don't  care  the  snap  of  my  finger  for  all  his  money,  but  what  I  do 


CHAPTER  FORTY-NINE  443 

care  about  is  having  him  think  that  I'm  a  base  ungenerous  brute. 
Mind,  I  don't  for  one  minute  admit  that  I  think  he's  ever  taken  ad- 
vantage of  my  aunt  —  I  don't,  I  can't  —  I  won't!" 

"Naturally,"  said  the  banker  kindly.  "You  have  the  greatest  re- 
gard for  him.  You'd  be  singularly  unworthy  if  you  hadn't;  but  really, 
Stephen,  he  is  not  acting  as  a  man  should  who  knows  he  is  in  the 
right  and  has  nothing  to  fear.  If  he  can  explain  the  transaction,  he 
can  explain  it  as  well  now  as  later  on,  and  save  himself  a  lot  of  annoy- 
ance into  the  bargain;  you  must  realize  this.  Now  we  know  Mr. 
Benson,  and  if  he  is  one  thing  more  than  another,  he  is  dispassionate 
and  reasonable;  he  has  neither  false  pride  nor  weak  vanity;  he  is  a 
cool,  level-headed  man  of  large  affairs  who  has  lived  a  long  time  in 
the  world,  and  who  must  be  fully  conscious  of  the  folly  and  weakness 
of  the  stand  he  has  taken  in  this  case;  he  is  silent  then  because  there 
is  nothing  he  can  say." 

"Then  you  agree  wholly  with  Wade  ?" 

"I  am  sorry  to  have  to  say  it  to  you,  Stephen,  but  I  do.  And  you 
can't  question  your  aunt's  right,  her  perfect  right,  to  go  ahead  with 
this  matter.  You  must  try  and  see  it  as  she  sees  it.  All  her  affairs  were 
in  his  hands,  and  he  took  the  basest  and  most  contemptible  advan- 
tage of  her  trust." 

"I  can't  believe  it!"  cried  Stephen. 

''My  dear  boy,  some  facts  are  so  plain  and  simple  they  can  not 
be  doubted.  The  facts  Wade  has  gathered  are  absolutely  convincing 
in  themselves,  and  you  don't  doubt  them  really;  you  are  only  un- 
willing to  believe  them.  At  first  I  felt  much  as  you  feel,  but  after  one 
or  two  talks  with  Wade  I  had  to  come  around  to  his  way  of  think- 
ing; there  was  no  help  for  it." 

"Well,  I  wish  I  knew  what  to  do,"  said  Stephen  gloomily.  He  had 
secretly  hoped  that  Norton  would  be  unpersuaded. 

"I  think  you  should  consider  your  aunt  somewhat,  Stephen:  she 
has  no  more  land  to  sell  unless  she  sells  the  cottage.  In  a  way,  you  owe 
her  more  than  you  do  Benson,  for  when  General  Gibbs  brought  you 
here,  you  went  to  her.  Benson's  interest  in  you  was  aroused  later;  and 
just  fancy  what  a  wrench  it  was  to  her  when  she  relinquished  all 
claim  upon  you." 

"I  never  quite  understood  that  she  did,"  said  Stephen. 

"That  was  the  condition  Mr.  Benson  imposed.  Of  course  she's 
hard  and  embittered;  and  can  you  wonder  at  it?" 

"No,  I  suppose  not." 


444  THE  LANDRAYS 

"You'll  find  my  wife  and  daughter  strong  partisans  of  your  aunt's. 
There  comes  Elinor  now." 

Stephen  glanced  from  the  window  and  saw  her  approaching  the 
house.  He  quitted  his  chair. 

"Don't  go,"  said  Norton.  "We  need  not  mention  this  before  her." 

A  moment  later  Elinor  entered  the  room.  After  a  few  words  with 
Stephen  and  her  father,  she  said: 

"I  am  just  starting  to  Aunt  Virginia's,  Stephen;  don't  you  think 
you  should  see  her,  too  ? " 

"Why?" 

"You  have  not  been  there  in  days.  She  is  very  anxious  about  you. 
Come  with  me,  it  will  make  her  so  happy.  She  is  afraid  she  will 
lose  you;  that  Mr.  Benson  will  object  to  your  coming  to  see  her." 

Stephen  bridled  at  this. 

"Mr.  Benson  will  not  interfere  with  me.  I  am  as  free  as  I  ever  was. 
Yes,  I'll  go  to  Aunt  Virginia's  with  you,  there  is  no  reason  why  I 
shouldn't." 

He  walked  in  silence  by  her  side  as  they  strolled  up  the  street 
toward  Virginia's  cottage.  At  last  he  said, 

"Elinor,  this  can  only  end  in  much  ill-feeling  and  the  breaking 
of  all  friendships.  You  must  see  this;  I  wish  you  cared." 

"I  do  care,  Stephen;  you  know  I  care,"  she  said  gently. 

"Whatever  I  do,  I  am  going  to  be  bitterly  dissatisfied  with  myself. 
You're  convinced;  you  cannot  understand  how  I'm  not,  and  you 
will  never  appreciate  my  motives;  you'll  always  question  them.  This 
Ff  akes  my  love  all  the  more  hopeless." 

"Never  mind  that  now,  Stephen,"  said  Elinor.  "Just  promise  me 
one  thing.  Aunt  Virginia  has  been  so  distressed  at  not  seeing  you,  I 
think  she  would  agree  to  anything  to  spare  you;  but  you  must  be 
fair  to  her.  She  has  no  right  to  sacrifice  herself  even  for  you." 

"Do  you  think  she  cares  that  much  for  me  ?" 

"Cares  for  you!"  cried  Elinor.  "She  is  devoted  to  you!  You  don't 
know  her  at  all,  or  you  would  know  this.  There  is  no  sacrifice  sru 
would  not  be  capable  of  making  for  year  sake." 

"I  shall  insist  upon  her  being  guided  by  your  father  and  Wade." 

"Isn't  he  wonderful;  Ben,  I  mean  —  I  don't  think  any  one  else 
would  or  could  have  done  all  he  has  done!" 

Stephen  heard  her  in  stony  silence;  for  in  his  heart  he  cursed  Wade 
for  his  zeal  and  shrewdness. 

It  was  not  Virgima's  habit  to  show  emotion,  but  Stephen  saw  that 


CHAPTER  FORTY-NINE  445 

his  call  was  as  much  a  pleasure  to  her  as  it  was  a  surprise  and  he 
was  glad  for  Benson's  sake,  that  he  had  come  wkh  Elinor,  if  only 
to  properly  present  him;  they  would  know  now  that  much  as  they 
doubted  him,  he  was  at  least  superior  to  all  littleness,  and  scorned 
to  make  use  of  him  in  any  small  revenge  he  might  have  taken.  Elinor 
and  Mrs.  Walsh  did  not  follow  them  into  the  parlour,  and  Stephen 
understood  that  Virginia  had  something  to  say  to  him. 

"I've  wanted  to  see  you,  Stephen,"  she  began  gently.  "Perhaps  I 
should  have  sent  for  you,  only  I  did  not  know  that  Mr.  Benson 
would  want  you  to  come  here." 

"Uncle  Jake  shows  no  inclination  to  interfere  with  me,"  said  Ste- 
phen quietly. 

"After  all,  Stephen,  perhaps  you  were  right;  perhaps  nothing 
should  be  done  —  about  the  land,  I  mean.  At  first  I  was  very  bitter 
toward  Mr.  Benson,  I  could  only  see  that  he  should  be  punished; 
but  I  am  more  tolerant  now;  at  least,  I  don't  want  to  involve  you,  or 
make  your  position  difficult,  and  I  don't  see  how  this  can  be  avoided 
if  suit  is  begun.  You  are  his  only  relative."  He  saw  that  this  ad- 
mission cost  her  something,  for  it  was  made  reluctantly.  "I  am  going 
to  tell  Mr.  Wade  my  decision  to-morrow.  I  think  this  will  be  best." 

"  But  my  dear  Aunt  Virginia,  you  can't  do  this,  I  can't  let  you 
make  any  such  sacrifice  for  me!" 

"For  whom  else  would  I  make  it,  Stephen?"  she  asked  simply. 
"  But  it  is  not  so  great  a  sacrifice  as  you  imagine." 

"  I  can't  allow  it,  Aunt  Virginia.  If  Uncle  Jake  has  done  what  you 
think,  it  is  only  just  that  he  should  make  reparation." 

"Don't  you  think  it  is  very  strange  that  he  will  say  nothing, 
will  explain  nothing?" 

"Perhaps  he  will,  if  you  will  be  patient,"  said  Stephen. 

But  Virginia  had  nothing  to  say  to  this. 

"I  can  only  see  that  the  thing  will  have  to  go  on,"  he  said,  but 
perhaps  he  spoke  half-heartedly;  for  after  all  if  she  dropped  the 
matter,  it  offered  him  an  easy  escape  from  his  difficulties;  and  he 
had  even  thought  of  asking  her  to  do  this  very  thing,  though  now 
that  she  suggested  it  of  her  own  free  will  he  was  rather  appalled  by 
the  proposal,  since  the  burden  of  it  would  rest  on  him.  He  pictured 
Wade's  rage  and  chagrin;  and  how  would  Elinor  and  the  Nortons 
feel  about  it!  The  difficulties  of  his  position  became  more  and  more 
apparent.  No,  the  thing  must  go  on,  no  sacrifice  of  his  aunt's  inter- 
ests would  right  matters;  only  the  law  offered  a  solution  of  the  prob- 


446  THE  LANDRAYS 

lem,  and  even  the  solution  might  be  an  imperfect  one,  for  who  could 
foresee  the  end! 

"The  thing's  started,  and  it  will  have  to  go  on,"  he  said  with 
dogged  insistence. 

"But  do  you  need  to  be  involved  ?"  she  questioned. 

"I  don't  know.  Just  at  present  I  seem  to  be  a  friend  with  all  fac- 
tions, but  how  long  this  can  continue  is  more  than  I  can  say.  No,  I 
am  not  fit  to  advise  you;  it  will  have  to  be  Wade  or  Mr.  Norton,  and 
they  have  already  declared  themselves." 

But  afterward  he  was  moody  and  preoccupied;  and  when  he 
walked  home  with  Elinor  that  night,  he  left  her  at  the  door  and 
would  not  go  in. 

He  reached  home,  and  let  himself  in  with  his  night-key.  Benson 
called  to  him  from  the  library,  and  Stephen  turned  with  a  sinking 
heart.  Benson's  habits  were  regular  and  old-fashioned;  he  retired 
early,  and  rose  early;  what  was  he  doing  up  at  that  hour? 

"Come  in  here,  Stephen,"  called  the  lawyer. 

Stephen  entered  the  room. 

With  great  deliberation  Benson  put  aside  the  book  he  had  been 
reading. 

"Sit  down,  Stephen,"  he  said,  indicating  a  chair.  There  was  a  firm 
set  to  his  lips,  and  Stephen  felt  that  he  had  waited  up  for  him,  im- 
pelled by  a  purpose  that  might  not  be  entirely  pleasant.  "Stephen, 
when  did  you  see  your  aunt  last  ?"  said  the  old  lawyer  sharply. 

"To-day  —  to-night,  I  took  supper  there.  I  went  there  from  the 
Nortons." 

Benson  smoothed  the  thin  white  hair  that  lay  on  his  temples,  with 
thin  well-shaped  hand. 

"I  suppose,"  he  began  thoughtfully,  "that  your  aunt  has  few,  if 
any,  secrets  that  exclude  them." 

"If  she  has,  I  don't  know  what  they  are,"  said  Stephen. 

"And  her  opinions  are  their  opinions.  Was  my  name  mentioned  ?" 

"Yes  — they— " 

"Never  mind  the  connection,  Stephen,"  he  interjected  austerely. 
He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  but  the  movement  of  his  hand  contin- 
ued. "Naturally  you  can't  quite  agree  with  them."  He  favoured 
Stephen  with  a  shrewd  scrutiny. 

"I  do  not,"  and  Stephen  met  his  glance  frankly. 

"Thank  you."  There  was  a  droop  to  his  eyelids  and  his  glance 
sought  the  floor  at  his  feet.  "That  being  the  case,"  he  began  slowly, 


CHAPTER  FORTY-NINE  447 

"you  will  agree  with  me,  I  think,  when  you  have  time  to  consider  the 
point,  that  in  future  it  will  be  more  agreeable  to  you  not  to  see  your 
aunt  or  the  Nortons.  Feeling  as  you  tell  me  you  do,  the  acquaintance 
cannot  be  entirely  pleasant." 

"It  is  more  than  an  acquaintance,"  said  Stephen.  He  felt  rebellious 
of  the  condition  Benson  was  seeking  to  impose. 

"You  must  hear  many  pleasant  things  of  me,"  said  the  lawyer, 
with  cynical  humour.  "It  must  be  pleasant  for  you  to  sit  and  listen 
to  them  denounce  me  —  eh  ?  Or  are  they  more  tactful  in  your 
presence  ?" 

But  Stephen  was  silent.  There  was  no  answer  he  could  make  to  this, 
but  he  felt  his  cheeks  redden. 

"Humph!"  said  Benson.  "You  don't  answer  me,"  he  added  in  the 
same  breath;  "but  you  don't  need  to.  I  suppose  you  see  that  scoun- 
drel Wade?" 

"No,  I  haven't  seen  him  in  days." 

"Don't  you  think  you  would  enjoy  travel?"  asked  Benson.  Ste- 
phen stared  at  him  blankly.  "Why  not  go  abroad  ?" 

"No,  I  can't  go  abroad  —  I  don't  wish  to,  and  —  no,  I  don't 
wish  to  —  " 

"I  merely  suggested  it  as  an  easy  way  of  breaking  with  these  peo- 
ple. You  might  be  gone  a  year,  two  years,  I  might  even  arrange  my 
affairs,  and  join  you  later." 

"You  don't  understand,  Uncle  Jake,  I  have  no  desire  to  break 
with  my  aunt;  as  for  the  Nortons  —  "  Benson's  glance  became  hos- 
tile, menacing,  and  Stephen  felt  a  quick  sense  of  resentment.  This 
was  a  man  he  had  never  known  before,  a  side  of  Benson's  charac- 
ter with  which  he  had  never  come  in  contact. 

"I  don't  quite  see  how  you  can  remain  a  member  of  my  household 
and  also  remain  friendly  with  your  aunt,  for  instance.  The  time  has 
come  when  you  will  have  to  choose  finally  between  us.  I  had  hoped 
you  would  see  this,  that  you  would  be  sufficiently  alive  to  your  own 
best  interests,  and  that  is  would  not  be  necessary  for  me  to  recall 
them  to  your  mind." 

"My  own  best  interests  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  situation;  but 
just  as  I  owe  much  to  you,  I  owe  something  to  my  aunt,  one  obliga- 
tion is  as  urgent  as  the  other.' 

"The  ways  separate  here  and  now,"  said  Benson  coldly, 
remain  under  my  roof.  I  must  ask  certain^things  of  you.   It    is  not 
much  to  require  under  the  circumstances." 


448  THE  LANDRAYS 

"It  is  a  great  deal  for  me  to  agree  to,  I  find,"  said  Stephen. 

Benson  glanced  at  him  frowningly. 

"I  am  rather  surprised  to  hear  you,  Stephen.  I  am  sorry  to  say  it. 
I  was  hurt  when  I  learned  that  you  had  spent  the  afternoon  at  the 
Nortons,  and  I  was  still  more  hurt  when  you  told  me  you  had  spent 
the  evening  at  your  aunt's.  Ihad  hoped  that  you  might  see  what  was 
due  me,  without  my  having  to  call  your  attention  to  it." 

Stephen  was  rapidly  losing  control  of  himself.  The  strain  under 
which  he  had  lived  for  days,  was  beginning  to  tell.  Here  was  opposi- 
tion, and  his  temper  rose  to  meet  it.  He  felt  that  Benson  was  unjust 
in  his  demands;  surely  his  aunt  had  been  more  generous.  But  what 
hurt  him  most,  was  the  fact  that  Benson  should  have  made  an  appeal 
to  his  self-interest.  That  was  the  last  thing  he  considered.  In  his 
present  frame  of  mind  it  seemed  of  no  importance  whatever. 

"I  owe  something  to  my  aunt,"  he  repeated,  with  dogged  insist- 
ence. 

"What  has  she  done  for  you  ?" 

"That  is  not  the  measure  of  my  regard  either  in  her  case  or 
yours." 

"Humph!"  said  Benson. 

"Am  I  to  understand  clearly  and  distinctly  that  I  am  not  to  see 
my  aunt  again  ?  That  it  is  your  wish,  and  that  you  equally  object  to 
my  seeing  the  Nortons  ?" 

"Yes,  that  is  exactly  what  I  mean." 

"I  think  I'd  better  tell  you  that  my  interest  in  Elinor  Norton  is  not 
mere  friendship." 

"The  Lord  save  us!"  cried  the  lawyer,  with  unpleasant  mirth. 
"What  has  that  to  do  with  it  ?" 

"A  good  deal  I  think,"  said  Stephen  haughtily. 

"What  are  your  prospects  that  you  can  consider  taking  a  wife  ?" 

"As  good  as  the  prospects  pf  most  men  who  have  nothing,"  re- 
torted Stephen  stoutly. 

"If  you  are  reasonable  in  this  one  thing,  you  will  have  something 
better  than  that  to  offer  the  woman  you  marry  —  only  it  will  not  be 
Miss  Norton." 

"It  will  be  no  one  else,"  said  Stephen  quietly. 

For  a  moment  they  gazed  at  each  other  with  flashing  eyes  and  set 
lips;  then  Benson  came  quickly  to  his  feet. 

"Think  it  over,  Stephen,"  he  said,  and  abruptly  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  FIFTY 

STEPHEN  came  swiftly  into  the  library.  The  early  morning 
sun  streamed  in  through  the  long  windows  which  stood  open, 
and  by  the  table  in  the  centre  of  the  room  sat  Benson  reading 
his  morning  paper. 

"Uncle  Jake,"  said  the  young  fellow  huskily. 

The  lawyer  glanced  up  from  his  paper. 

"Good-morning,  Stephen,"  he  said  pleasantly.  His  mood  had 
changed  somewhat  over  night,  and  he  had  decided  not  to  be  too 
exacting  with  the  boy.  But  Stephen  could  not  know  this.  His  face 
was  very  white  and  resolute.  He  had  slept  but  little.  The  gross  in- 
justice of  Benson's  demand  was  a  conviction  that  had  remained 
unalterably  fixed  in  his  memory.  He  met  Benson's  glance  waveringly. 
Something  rose  in  his  throat,  but  by  an  effort  he  mastered  the  emo- 
tions he  felt  might  sway  him  to  weakly  temporize  with  a  situation 
which  he  had  told  himself  over  and  over  could  not  be  longer  borne 

"In  view  of  last  night's  conversation,  Uncle  Jake,  I  have  decided 
that  the  best  thing  for  me  to  do  is  to  leave  your  house.     I  am  sorry 
that  this  is  so.  I  am  here  to  thank  you  for  the  benefits,  the  numbe 
less  kindnesses  you  have  conferred  upon  me  — and  to  say  good 
bye."  He  took  a  forward  step  and  extended  his  hand.  The  words  he 
had  rehearsed  many  times,  but  the  feeling  that  flowed  with  them  was 
real  and  spontaneous  and  of  the  moment  itself. 

The  paper  shook  in  the  lawyer's  hand,  but  he  did  not  put  it  aside 
nor  rise  to  his  feet.  An  angry  frown  gathered  between  his  brows,  but 
this  smoothed  itself  away,  and  left  him  cold  and  unmoved 

"Just  as  you  think  best,  Stephen,"  he  said,  without  show  of  re- 
sentment  or  regret,  and  dropped  his  eyes  to  the  paper  ag«n. 

There  was  a  painful  awkward  pause,  in  which  Stephen  heard  the 
beating  of  his  own  heart.  His  decision  and  Benson  s  »£P^  * 
it  had  been  reached  with  tragic  swiftness;  and  he  recogn ^  *at  *e 
affairs  of  life  are  sometimes  affairs  of  seconds  only;  that  one  can 

449 


450  THE  LANDRAYS 

ter  ruthlessly  as  well  as  rear  patiently.  He  paused  irresolutely  in  the 
doorway. 

"Uncle  Jake,  won't  you  speak  to  me  — 

"I  have  nothing  to  say,  Stephen,"  said  Benson,  without  lifting  his 
eyes  from  his  paper. 

At  this,  Stephen  turned  on  his  heel  and  left  the  room.  A  moment 
later,  and  the  house  door  closed,  and  save  for  the  servants  Benson 
was  alone  in  his  house. 

He  read  on  imperturbably  until  the  breakfast  bell  rang,  then  he 
got  up  slowly,  and  walked  slowly  into  the  dining-room. 

On  the  street  Stephen  paused  and  took  stock  of  the  situation.  He 
had  broken  with  Benson,  and  where  was  he  to  go  ?  There  was  only 
his  aunt;  he  would  have  to  go  there.  He  could  ask  this  of  her  for  the 
time,  until  he  could  do  something  for  himself.  He  was  hurt  and  em- 
bittered. It  was  a  terrible  blow  to  him  that  Benson's  affection  had 
died  so  quick  a  death.  He  wished  he  might  have  been  allowed  to  say 
more,  to  explain  fully  why  his  attitude  was  as  it  was,  and  just  how 
impossible  it  had  become  for  him  to  break  with  either  his  aunt  or 
the  Nortons. 

It  hurt  him,  too,  though  he  did  not  own  this  even  to  himself,  that 
after  all  these  years  he  had  made  himself  of  so  little  consequence  to 
Benson.  He  would  have  dismissed  an  incompetent  servant  with  as 
little  show  of  feeling. 

But  Benson  was  not  happy.  He  dispatched  his  breakfast  in  haste 
and  hurried  down  to  the  office. 

"Gibbs,"  said  he  to  the  general  who  was  already  there.  "Ste- 
phen has  left  my  house." 

"Left  your  house,  Jake  —  I  don't  understand." 

"He  has  left  my  house,"  repeated  Benson  sharply. 

"Good  Heavens,  Jake,  what's  happened?"  cried  the  general  in 
dismay. 

"Never  mind  what's  happened,  Gibbs.  You  are  not  to  mention  his 
name  again  in  my  hearing;  that  is  all  I  have  to  say  to  you." 

"Oh,  see  here,  Jake,"  began  Gibbs,  but  Benson  gave  him  such  a 
look  that  he  dared  say  no  more. 

"This  is  a  matter  we  will  not  discuss,"  said  he  frigidly.  "Now 
bring  in  your  accounts,  and  we  will  see  about  your  collections  for  the 
month." 

All  that  morning  poor  Gibbs  worked  as  a  man  in  a  dream;  but  at 
noon  Benson  went  home,  and  he  promptly  put  on  his  hat  and  shuf- 


CHAPTER  FIFTY  451 

fled  out  into  the  street.  He  was  consumed  by  a  burning  desire  to 
know  why  Stephen  had  left  the  lawyer's  house,  for  what  would 
Stephen  do  without  Benson,  and  what  would  Benson  do  without 
Stephen  ?  One  had  seemed  as  dependent  as  the  other  in  this  relation 
of  theirs.  He  wondered  what  was  the  nature  of  Stephen's  offence.  He 
felt  that  he  must  have  exceeded  the  limits  set  by  Benson  in  some  par- 
ticular. Probably  he  had  been  extravagant,  he  could  think  of  noth- 
ing beyond  this;  scandal  he  would  have  heard.  He  knew  that  for 
some  days  Benson  had  seemed  worried  and  anxious,  and  this  ex- 
plained it.  Stephen  had  been  the  cause  of  it,  but  what  was  it  that 
Stephen  could  have  done! 

These  were  the  points  he  pondered  as  he  hurried  away  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Wade's  office.  He  would  see  Wade  and  get  word  to  Stephen. 
He  found  Ben  alone. 

"Have  you  seen  Stephen  Landray  to-day?'"  he  demanded  with- 
out ceremony  or  introductions 

"No  —  what's  wrong,  general  ?"  said  Wade. 

"Matter  enough!"  said  the  general  moodily,  as  he  sat  down 
weakly  in  a  chair.  "But  what  it  is  I  don't  just  know.  I'd  give  a  good 
deal  to  —  " 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"He's  left  Jake  Benson's,  Ben!  Jake  called  me  into  the  office  this 
morning  the  first  thing  and  told  me  he'd  left  —  gone  for  good  —  and 
that  I  was  not  to  mention  his  name  again.  Now  what  do  you  think  of 
that?" 

Wade  bounded  from  his  chair  and  snatched  up  his  hat. 

"You  don't  say!  Well,  this  is  news!" 

"Ain't  it  awful!"  lamented  the  general. 

"Well,  of  course  that's  one  way  to  look  at  it,"  said  Wade,  grinning. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Ben  ?"  for  he  saw  that  Wade  was  making 
preparations  to  leave. 

"Out  to  Mrs.  Landray's;  I  want  to  see  Stephen,  I  expect  to 
find  him  there."  , 

"Hold  on,  Ben,"  said  Gibbs,  detaining  him  with  a  feeble  hand. 
"Do  you  know  what's  wrong  ?  Has  Stephen  been  in  any  trouble  that 

you  know  of  ? "  ,      „ 

"Nothing  that  I  know  of,  general,  I  give  you  my  word  on  that. 
"No  debts,  no  escapades  that  Jake  Benson  would  be  likely  noi 

to  approve  of?" 

"None  so  far  as  I  know,"  said  Wade  impatiently. 


45*  THE  LANDRAYS 

"Then  w^at  s  wrong,  can  you  tell  me  that?"  asked  Gibbs 
weakly. 

"No,  I  can't,"  said  Wade. 

"I  suppose  both  of  them  lost  their  tempers  over  some  trifle,"  spec- 
ulated the  general.  "But  look  here,  this  ain't  no  trifle  to  either  of 
them;  the  boy's  future  is  at  stake;  and  this  is  no  light  matter  to 
Jake  either,  for  all  his  damn  airs!  I'll  bet  they  just  flared  up  over 
nothing  at  all,  and  now  I  want  to  see  'em  flare  down  and  get  back  to 
their  senses.  You're  going  to  see  Steve  ?" 

"Yes,  that  is  if  he  is  at  his  aunt's  as  I  expect  he  is.  I  am  going 
there  now." 

"Well,  you  tell  him  for  me,  Ben,  that  I  want  to  see  him,  to-night 
at  my  house,  will  you  do  that  ?" 

"Certainly." 

"Tell  him  it's  very  particular.  I'd  go  to  him  myself,  but  Jake  might 
not  like  that  if  he  ever  found  it  out;  but  there  is  no  harm  in  his  com- 
ing to  me;  that's  quite  another  matter." 

"Quite,"  agreed  Wade. 

"I'm  going  to  patch  this  thing  up,"  said  the  old  man.  "Jake  Ben- 
son ain't  acting  right,  and  he  knows  it.  He's  got  no  business  to  turn 
that  young  fellow  out  of  doors  without  a  day's  warning.  I'll  tell  him 
so,  too,  if  he  don't  come  to  his  senses  damn  quick!" 

"All  right,  general  —  all  right.  I'll  give  him  your  message,"  said 
Wade  from  the  door. 

"Thank  you,  Ben,"  and  Gibbs  shuffled  after  him,  but  by  the  time 
he  had  reached  the  street,  Wade  had  disappeared. 

This  was  news  indeed  that  old  Gibbs  had  brought  him,  for  there 
could  be  but  one  reason  why  Stephen  had  left  Benson. 

"He's  objected  to  Stephen  going  to  his  aunt's.  Stephen  probably 
told  him  he  was  there  last  night.  These  people  —  these  people!  who 
are  ready  to  chuck  up  everything  for  a  fancied  point  of  honour, 
who  are  always  losing  sight  of  the  main  thing!  How  am  I  ever  going 
to  keep  them  sane  and  faced  about  in  the  right  direction!" 

He  found  Stephen  at  the  cottage  but  reserved  and  taciturn,  and 
quite  evidently  none  too  well  pleased  with  himself,  and  apparently 
very  resentful  of  his  own  prompt  appearance,  especially  when  he 
told  him  of  Gibbs's  call  and  message.  But  Wade  was  not  sensitive; 
he  carried  a  stout  heart  under  a  thick  skin,  and  much  had  been  ac- 
complished, for  Stephen  had  broken  with  Benson.  This  was  more 
than  he  had  hoped  for. 


CHAPTER  FIFTY  453 

Virginia  came  into  the  room,  and  with  a  muttered  excuse  to  her, 
Stephen  left  them.  She  was  not  reserved.  She  thought  Benson's  con- 
duct had  been  outrageous. 

"But  what  was  the  trouble,  Mrs.  Landray?" 

"I  don't  know,  Stephen  hasn't  said,  but  he  has  left  Mr.  Benson 
for  good;"  her  eyes  flashed  with  the  sense  of  triumph  she  was  feel- 
ing, and  which  she  could  not  hide  from  him.  She  had  asked  Stephen 
no  question,  and  he  had  told  her  nothing  beyond  the  fact  that  he  and 
Benson  had  disagreed  and  that  he  could  not  go  back  there. 

"Well,  now  we  can  go  ahead,  can't  we?"  said  Wade  eagerlv 

"Yes,  I  am  glad  you  came,  for  I  want  to  know  what  I  must  do." 

"We'll  offer  Benson  back  the  five  thousand  dollars  he  paid  for  the 
land,"  said  Wade. 

"But  I  have  no  such  sum  as  that!"  said  Virginia. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right.  Mr.  Norton  will  let  us  have  the  cash  for  an 
hour  or  so.  Of  course,  Benson  won't  take  it,  the  tender  is  the  merest 
formality,  and  don't  really  mean  anything  in  itself,"  explained  Wade. 

"Is  it  necessary?" 

"Well,  yes,  it's  a  good  point.  Don't  you  see,  you  will  have  offered 
him  his  money  back;  it  shows  you  are  in  earnest.  Yes,  I  should 
hate  to  dispense  with  that;  and  to  tell  the  truth,  I've  already  arranged 
with  Mr.  Norton  for  the  use  of  the  money.  He  quite  agrees  with  me 
that  vre  should  leave  nothing  undone  that  will  give  our  case  author- 
ity. When  it  gets  to  trial,  I  expect  that  we  will  find  that  Benson  has 
not  been  quite  so  inactive  as  he  seems.  He  has  influence  and  he  has 
money,  and  he  will  use  them  both;  that's  a  foregone  conclusion.  This 
is  going  to  rip  the  town  wide  open,  Mrs.  Landray;  nothing  like  this 
has  ever  happened  here  before;  no  case  of  exactly  the  same  calibre 
has  ever  been  brought  to  trial  in  the  county." 

He  took  his  leave  of  her  with  some  precipitation,  for  he  feared  the 
riot  of  his  own  enthusiasm.  He  had  doubted  and  feared,  but  now  the 
case  was  assured;  and  the  dinky  little  Queen  Anne  on  Norton's 
vacant  lot  seemed  to  be  digging  itself  a  cellar  among  the  roses;  and 
then  it  grew  as  never  a  house  had  grown  before,  until  he  could  fancy 
himself  approaching  it  with  springing  step,  and  Clara,  that  para- 
gon of  charming  femininity,  waiting  for  him  just  inside  the  door. 

That  night  Stephen  went  to  see  Gibbs.  The  general  had  prepared 
for  the  meeting  with  unnecessary  elaboration.  He  had  induced  his 
Julia  to  retire  to  a  neighbour's. 

"She  don't  know  yet  that  anything's  wrong  between  you  and 


454  THE  LANDRAYS 

Jake,  and  I  hope  to  get  you  back  on  a  sane  basis  before  I  tell 
her  you've  had  this  little  flare  up.  My  dear  boy,  I  want  you  to  put 
your  case  in  my  hands  and  leave  it  all  to  me;  a  little  tact,  you 
know  —  " 

"My  dear  general,  you  don't  understand  the  situation,"  said 
Stephen,  but  he  had  no  intention  of  telling  him  the  nature  of  their 
difference,  he  had  too  much  regard  for  Gibbs.  He  could  not  shake 
his  faith  in  Benson.  That  would  come  soon  enough. 

"I  ain't  asking  to  know  the  ins  and  outs  of  your  little  difference," 
said  Gibbs  magnanimously.  "  I  take  it,  it  was  just  a  friendly  little 
quarrel,  that  I  can  patch  up  in  about  ten  seconds  when  the  time 
comes  for  me  to  take  a  hand  in  the  matter." 

Stephen  shook  his  head. 

"Now,  you  don't  mean  that  you  ain't  willing  to  patch  it  up?" 
expostulated  Gibbs. 

"I  should  like  to  retain  Uncle  Jake's  affection  —  " 

"Well,  I  don't  reckon  that's  entirely  out  of  your  reach,  Steve.  Let 
me  say  something  to  him  as  coming  from  you;  I'll  wait  until 
the  time's  ripe,  trust  me  for  that,"  urged  the  general.  "He's  told 
me  I  mustn't  mention  your  name  again  in  his  hearing,  but  I'll  risk 
it.  He  can't  put  on  those  airs  with  me;  I  ain't  no  patience  with  such 
damn  nonsense  anyhow,  and  he  knows  it!  Let  me  tell  him  you  regret 
what's  happened  —  I  don't  know  what  it  is,  and  I  don't  ask  to  know 
—  but  just  let  me  tell  him  you  are  sorry.  I  want  to  see  you  back 
there  both  for  his  sake  and  for  your  own.  I  know  Jake  Benson,  I 
know  him  better  than  he  knows  himself;  and  if  you  say  I  may,  I'll 
lodge  the  sort  of  an  idea  with  him  that'll  stick.  Let  me  fix  it  up  for 
you,  Steve,"  he  entreated. 

"No,  you  must  say  nothing,  general.  In  fact  there  is  nothing  you 
can  say." 

"Don't  let  your  pride  obscure  your  reason,  Steve,  you  got  too 
much  at  stake  to  act  this  way.  You  can't  afford  to  affront  him." 

"But  I've  not  affronted  him,  in  the  sense  you  mean;  you  will  know 
all  there  is  to  know  before  long,  and  then  you  will  understand.*' 

"And  you  won't  let  me  say  a  word  to  him  ?"  grieved  Gibbs. 

"  It  can  only  make  trouble  for  you,  general,  and  nothing  can  come 
of  it." 

"You  shouldn't  have  lost  your  temper.  Steve.  Of  course,  I  know 
he's  rather  exacting  at  t«m<s  — 

"No,  Fve  nothing  to  complain  cf;  he  has  always  been  kindness 


CHAPTER  FIFTY  455 

itself  to  me.  I  appreciate  your  wish  to  help  me,  though  I  can't  make 
use  of  it." 

"Just  let  me  edge  in  a  word  now  and  then,"  urged  the  general. 

"My  disagreement  with  Uncle  Jake  is  not  of  the  nature  you  sup. 
pose,  and  is  not  to  be  adjusted.  The  breach  can  only  go  on  widening. 
I  am  sorry  to  have  to  tell  you  this." 

"You  don't  mean  you  broke  with  him  for  good  and  all!"  wailed 
Gibbs. 

"That's  about  the  amount  of  the  matter." 

"But  you  can't  afford  to,  Steve." 

"It's  an  extravagance  in  which  I  am  going  to  indulge  myself,  at 
any  rate,"  said  Stephen,  smiling  sadly  at  the  old  man. 

"I  thought  it  was  just  some  little  difference,"  said  the  general. 
"You're  sure  you  don't  exaggerate  ?" 

"I  fear  I  don't.  But  I  thank  you  for  your  wish  to  serve  me." 

"It  was  for  him  as  well  as  you,  Steve.  You  been  everything  to 
him.  Now  he's  got  only  me,  and  we'll  doze  over  our  wine  night 
after  night  as  we  did  before  you  came  —  well,  I'm  sorry  there's  noth- 
ing I  can  do,  but  I  suppose  you  know  best.  Well,  I  hope  it  will  work 
out  right,  for  I've  set  my  heart  on  your  getting  his  money  one  of 
these  days.  I  don't  want  to  see  it  go  to  some  damn  charity  1" 

Wade  had  told  Virginia  that  their  first  step  would  be  to  offer  Ben- 
son the  five  thousand  dollars  he  had  paid  for  the  land.  She  had  not 
understood  that  she  would  have  to  make  this  demand  in  person,  but 
later  Wade  made  this  point  clear  to  her. 

"Of  course  it's  not  a  thing  one  would  care  to  do  if  one  were  going 
to  pick  out  just  the  things  they'd  like  to  do,"  said  Wade,  smiling  into 
her  face.  "  But  we'll  catch  him  at  his  office  when  only  old  Gibbs  and 
the  bookkeeper  are  there;  they'll  do  very  well  as  witnesses,"  he 
explained. 

"And  I  must  go  there  —  but  not  alone!" 

"No,  no,  I'll  go  with  you." 

Virginia  looked  at  him  doubtingly. 

"  It  never  occurred  to  me  that  I  should  have  to  do  this,  Mr.  Wade," 
she  said. 

"I  don't  expect  the  law  is  ever  very  pleasant  to  any  one  except  the 
lawyers,  but  I  should  think  this  would  be  a  rather  more  difficult 
occasion  for  Mr.  Benson  than  for  any  one  else." 

"Does  Stephen  know  what  I  shall  have  to  do?" 


456  THE  LANDRAYS 

"I  don't  think  he  does." 

"Then  he'd  better  not  be  told  until  it  is  all  over." 

"Probably  not,"  agreed  Wade. 

"If  it  were  not  for  his  sake  I  should  not  care  to  make  this  demand; 
but  don't  you  see,  he  will  have  absolutely  nothing  unless  this  suit  is 
won.  It  is  most  important  that  the  money  should  be  recovered." 

"It  is,"  said  Wade. 

"And  you  have  no  doubt  but  the  suit  will  be  won?"  she  asked 
anxiously. 

"Well,  of  course,  one  can  never  tell;  but  I've  put  the  question  to 
myself  many  times  in  the  last  few  days,  and  I  feel  certain  of  the  out- 
come. I  think  we  had  best  get  the  preliminary  steps  over  with  as 
quickly  as  possible."  He  was  aware  that  the  interview  with  Benson 
would  only  seem  the  more  impossible  the  longer  it  was  deferred. 

"I  have  not  seen  Mr.  Benson  in  years,"  said  Virginia  thought- 
fully. "Once  I  should  not  have  thought  it  possible  for  him  to  wrong 
any  one  —  " 

"Well,  we  know  in  Stephen's  case  that  he  was  hard  enough  —  to 
call  it  by  no  other  name,"  said  Wade. 

"Yes,  that  is  true." 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Landray,  there  is  nothing  extraordinary  in  the 
situation.  I  am  sorry  to  say  it,  but  suits  of  this  sort  are  far  from  un- 
common. You  had  every  confidence  in  Mr.  Benson,  and  he  saw  his 
opportunity  Men  play  for  riches  without  much  thought  of  anything 
but  the  stakes.  Not  to  get  found  out  is  the  principal  thing." 

But  Virginia  was  not  giving  any  attention  to  Mr.  Wade's  slipshod 
views  on  morality.  She  was  thinking  of  the  Benson  she  had  once 
known:  the  Benson  who  had  sacrificed  himself  to  meet  her  lightest 
wish,  whose  kindness  had  seemed  infinite.  He  could  not  have 
wronged  her  and  remained  the  man  she  had  known.  The  change 
had  begun  then,  and  it  had  gone  on,  and  the  manifestation  of  it  had 
come  to  her  in  many  ways;  in  his  treatment  of  Stephen's  father,  and 
now  in  the  case  of  Stephen  himself.  The  thought  of  the  two  Stephens 
always  stiffened  the  spirit  of  her  resentment  against  this  former 
friend. 

"I  think  the  sooner  we  get  it  over  with,  the  better,"  said  Wade. 
"What  do  you  say  to  some  day  next  week  ?" 

"Is  there  any  reason  why  we  should  wait  ?"  asked  Virginia. 

"None  whatever,  but  I  thought  you  might  prefer  to." 

"No,  I  will  see  Mr.  Benson  at  once." 


CHAPTER  FIFTY  457 

Wade's  eyes  sparkled. 

"Mr.  Benson  is  usually  in  his  office  between  eleven  and  twelve. 
If  I  call  here  with  a  carriage  and  the  money  at  half-past  ten  to^ 
morrow,  will  you  be  ready?" 

"Yes." 

"I  declare,  Mrs.  Landray,  you  are  almost  as  good  as  a  man!  We 
are  sure  to  find  old  Gibbs  there,  and  Miss  Murphy,  the  bookkeeper. 
The  thing  will  be  over  with  in  a  moment;  the  anticipation  is  much 
the  worst  part  of  it." 

"Come  at  half-past  ten,"  said  Virginia;  and  Wade  hurried  down 
town  to  see  Norton. 

He  stopped  at  his  office  just  long  enough  to  write  a  note  to  Ste- 
phen, whom  he  asked  to  drop  in  on  him  at  half-past  ten  the  next 
day,  and  to  wait  there  for  him  until  he  came.  He  wanted  to  get  him 
out  of  the  way  until  Virginia  should  have  had  her  interview  with 
Benson,  when  it  would  be  too  late  for  him  to  interfere  to  any  purpose. 

The  next  morning,  assisted  by  Jane,  Virginia  dressed  for  the  ordeal 
with  more  than  her  usual  care, 

"Where  is  Stephen  ?"  she  asked  of  the  latter. 

"He  has  just  gone  to  see  Mr.  Wade,  dear.  He  had  a  note  from  him 
this  morning  asking  him  to  call  at  the  office,  so  he  told  me." 

By  turns  Virginia  was  hot  and  cold,  but  her  composure  was  steady 
and  unshaken,  though  when  they  heard  the  carriage  drive  up  to  the 
gate,  she  sat  down  abruptly  and  stared  rather  helplessly  at  Jane; 
yet  a  moment  later  when  she  descended  the  stairs,  all  her  firmness 
had  returned. 

On  the  way  downtown  Wade  carefully  outlined  the  points  she 
was  to  cover. 

"You  think  you  can  do  it,  Mrs.  Landray?"  he  asked  anxiously; 
"You  don't  think  it  will  be  too  much  for  you  ?" 

"  It  is  nothing  I  should  care  to  do  for  the  pleasure  of  it,"  said  Vir- 
ginia, with  a  gleam  of  nervous  humour  at  the  thought.  She  set  her 
lips  firmly.  "I  think  I  can  remember  all  you  say.  You  will  go  in 
with  me?" 

"Oh,  yes,  you  don't  think  I'd  desert  you?"  he  said  reproach- 
fully.  He  was  in  a  fever  of  excitement,  though  no  one  would  have 
guessed  it  from  his  manner. 

"Then  stand  close  at  my  side  where  I  can  touch  you  if  I  want  to," 
said  Virginia. 

"I'll  be  right  there,  Mrs.  Landray,"  he  answered  laughing.  "Still 


45«  THE  LANDRAYS 

I  don't  see  why  you  should  feel  it.  Benson  is  the  one  who  has  done 
wrong.  All  you  want  is  the  land,  and  I've  the  money  here  for  him, 
if  he'll  only  take  it." 

The  carriage  drew  up  at  the  curb  in  front  of  Benson's  office,  and 
Wade  opened  the  door  and  sprang  out  and  helped  Virginia  to  de- 
scend. He  looked  closely  into  her  face,  but  beyond  that  it  was  quite 
colorless,  it  betokened  nothing  of  her  feeling  at  that  moment.  He 
could  not  help  seeing  what  a  fine  and  imposing  figure  she  made.  He 
noted  the  firm  set  of  her  lips,  and  knew  she  would  be  fully  equal  to 
the  occasion. 

For  a  moment  Virginia  paused  before  entering  the  building  and 
glanced  about  her.  Perhaps  she  did  this  unconsciously,  but  Wade 
thought  he  understood  her  feeling. 

"Courage!  "he  said. 

She  entered  the  building  and  went  swiftly  up  the  single  flight  of 
steps  that  led  to  Benson's  office.  Wade  made  as  if  to  offer  her  his 
arm,  but  by  a  quick  gesture  she  declined  it.  He  kept  his  glance  fixed 
on  her  face.  He  would  have  been  quick  to  detect  any  sign  of  wavering 
on  her  part;  but  her  face  had  become  a  mask  which  hid  all  emotion. 

They  entered  the  office.  In  the  outer  room  sat  Gibbs  writing  at  his 
desk,  with  his  bald  head  just  showing  where  he  bent  above  his 
work.  At  another  desk  Miss  Murphy  was  similarly  occupied.  An 
arch  which  could  be  closed  with  folding  doors,  separated  the  outer 
office  from  the  inner  and  more  private  room,  and  here  sat  Benson. 
But  he  was  not  alone.  Dr.  Ward,  the  Episcopal  clergyman  was  with 
him,  and  they  were  talking  together. 

Wade  glanced  about  him  with  a  swift  turn  of  the  head.  He  saw 
Gibbs  and  Miss  Murphy;  and  beyond  the  arch,  Benson  and  Dr. 
Ward;  and  a  slight  smile  parted  his  lips.  Dr.  Ward's  unlooked-for 
presence  only  added  to  the  dramatic  value  of  the  moment  that  was 
to  come,  and  Wade's  alert  mind  saw  beyond  the  present.  It  would 
be  all  over  town  in  a  few  hours,  and  he  would  be  the  most  talked  of 
lawyer  in  the  county.  He  nodded  pleasantly  to  Gibbs,  who  had 
glanced  up  from  his  writing,  and  whose  eye  he  caught.  He  smiled  at 
Miss  Murphy,  who  was  pretty,  and  turned  to  Virginia. 

''Courage!"  he  whispered  between  his  teeth. 

Virginia  advanced  straight  to  the  wide  opening  between  the  two 
rooms.  She  did  not  see  Gibbs,  and  she  did  not  see  Miss  Murphy; 
though  she  was  conscious  of  their  presence  in  the  room.  But  she  did 
see  Benson,  and  knew  in  a  vague  sort  of  way  that  he  was  seated  at 


CHAPTER  FIFTY  459 

his  desk  talking  with  a  man,  but  she  did  not  realize  who  that  man 
was  until  afterward. 

When  he  saw  Virginia,  white-faced,  but  resolute,  and  determined, 
Benson  realized  what  was  to  follow,  what  was  indeed  happening 
then;  and  he  came  slowly  to  his  feet.  He  even  took  half  a  step  forward 
to  meet  her. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  Virginia,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 
"Won't  you  sit  down  for  a  moment  ?  I  shall  be  at  libety  then." 

He  wanted  Dr.  Ward  to  go  before  she  hurled  her  charges  at  his 
head. 

Virginia  turned  rather  helplessly  to  Wade.  She  was  conscious  all 
at  once  that  what  had  been  a  mere  idea  had  suddenly  become  an 
entity,  and  the  entity  was  this  gentle  smiling  man  whom  she  had 
come  there  to  charge  with  fraud.  But  Wade  gave  her  a  quick  glance 
of  encouragement  and  nodded  his  head  with  cool  decision.  At  the 
same  moment  he  slipped  into  her  hand  the  packet  of  bank-notes 
which  Norton  had  furnished  for  the  occasion. 

In  a  clear  voice,  a  voice  that  vibrated  richly  with  feeling,  Virginia 
began  her  demand.  There  was  a  gasping  pause  —  and  then  a  deathly 
stillness  in  the  office  which  the  sound  of  her  voice  filled,  not  loudly, 
but  clearly  and  distinctly. 

Miss  Murphy  let  the  pen  slip  from  her  fingers.  It  rolled  across  her 
desk,  and  fell  noisily  to  the  floor.  Gibbs  half  rose  from  his  chair,  and 
stared  at  Virginia  with  bulging  eyes  fixed  in  a  stare  of  unutterable 
astonishment.  Every  scrap  of  colour  had  fled  from  Benson's  smooth- 
shaven  cheeks,  and  his  thin  lips  twitched,  seeming  to  follow  her 
words  with  some  utterance  of  his  own;  but  no  sound  escaped  them. 
Word  for  word  he  kept  up  this  dumb  show  of  speech,  while  his  fingers 
played  nervously,  absently,  the  while,  with  some  papers  he  held  in 
his  hand. 

But  of  all,  Dr.  Ward  was  the  first  to  recover  himself.  He  uttered  a 
startled  exclamation,  once  the  full  meaning  of  what  Virginia  was  say- 
ing was  clear  to  him,  and  took  a  step  toward  her. 

"You're  mad,  Mrs.  Landray!"  he  cried. 

Apparently  he  had  it  in  his  mind  to  stop  her  by  some  physical  act, 
but  Wade  put  out  his  hand  and  waved  him  away. 

"Don't  you  see  —  don't  you  understand  —  this  is  a  matter  of 
business,  let  Mrs.    Landray  go  on!  This   is   no  concern  of  yours 
he  said  in  an  unshaken  voice,  and  glared  angrily  at  the  would 
interrupter. 


460  THE  LANDRAYS 

But  Virginia  had  already  finished.  There  was  a  brief  pause. 

"The  money,  Mrs.  Landray,  you  have  it  in  your  hand,"  said 
Wade,  grimly  insistent  that  the  farce  should  be  played  out;  and 
obedient  to  his  prompting,  Virginia  took  a  forward  step  and  extended 
the  bundle  of  notes. 

Benson  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  her.  Then  he  said  in  the  same 
low  voice  in  which  he  had  before  spoken. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Virginia.  No,  the  sale  of  the  land 
will  have  to  stand;"  and  he  turned  imperturbably  to  Dr.  Ward. 

"He  has  answered  you,  Mrs.  Landray.  We  will  go,"  said  Wade 
quietly;  and  they  moved  back  through  the  outer  office,  past  the  as- 
tonished Gibbs,  and  past  Miss  Murphy.  It  was  only  when  they 
reached  the  head  of  the  flight  of  steps  that  Virginia  spoke. 

"I  forgot  nothing?  I  said  all  that  was  necessary  for  me  to  say  ?" 
she  asked. 

He  realized  that  she  would  have  been  ready  to  return  if  this  had 
been  needful. 

"Indeed  you  did!"  he  chuckled. 

But  as  they  went  down-stairs  her  gloved  hand  rested  quite  uncon- 
sciously on  his  arm,  and  he  noted  how  it  shook,  and  divined  that 
the  ordeal  through  which  she  had  just  passed  had  been  perhaps 
greater  than  he  had  at  first  supposed.  When  they  reached  the  street, 
she  turned  to  him  and  said: 

"You  need  not  go  back  to  the  house  with  me.  I  really  think  I  pre- 
fer to  go  alone  —  only  tell  the  man  to  drive  fast,  please." 

"But  hadn't  you  better  let  me  go  with  you  ?"  he  urged. 

"No,  you  are  very  kind.  And  please  don't  come  to  see  me  until 
to-morrow;  this  has  been  enough  for  one  day." 


CHAPTER  FIFTY-ONE 

WADE  found  Stephen  waiting  for  him  when  he  entered  the 
office. 
"I  am  sorry  I  was  detained,"  he  said  smoothly.  "But 
the  fact  is  I've  been  to  see  Mr.  Benson.  I  took  your  aunt  there.  I  tell 
you  she's  a  trump!  She's  the  one  person  I  know,  who's  just  a  little 
more  than  a  match  for  him!"  He  threw  himself  down  in  the  chair  by 
the  desk  and  sought  among  the  litter  of  papers  for  his  pipe  and 
tobacco. 

"My  Aunt  Virginia  has  been  to  see  Mr.  Benson!"  cried  Stephen. 

"Yes,  sir,  I  just  sent  her  home  in  a  carriage,"  said  Wade 
coolly. 

"I  should  have  been  told  about  this,  Ben,"  said  Stephen  resent- 
fully. "It  was  my  right  to  know  what  you  were  doing." 

"Oh,  see  here,  Steve,  that's  no  way  to  look  at  it.  We  wanted  to 
spare  you.  You  can't  muss  up  in  this;  you  wouldn't  have  cared  to  go 
to  him  yourself." 

"I?  I  couldn't!"  said  Stephen. 

"Of  course  you  couldn't,  and  so  your  aunt  did  the  trick."  He 
began  to  fill  his  pipe,  and  as  he  worked  the  tobacco  down  with  his 
forefinger,  he  described  the  interview. 

"But  what  did  Uncle  Jake  say  ?"  asked  Stephen  impatiently.  He 
found  that  after  all  he  had  counted  much  on  some  explanation  the 
lawyer  would  have  it  in  his  power  to  make. 

"Say?  Nothing,"  snorted  Wade.  "I  didn't  expect  he'd  say  any- 
thing.  What  would  he  say  ?" 

"But  he  denied  it?" 

"Not  in  the  way  you  mean,  Steve.  But  of  course  he  declined  to 
accept  the  money  your  aunt  tendered  him." 

"What  will  you  do  now?" 

"Get  it  to  trial  as  quick  as  ever  I  can.  Enough  time's  been  wasted 

already." 

461 


462  THE  LANDRAYS 

Stephen  was  silent.  He  rested  his  head  in  his  hands;  he  was  sick 
at  heart.  The  idea  that  the  hideous  thing  had  been  given  publicity 
was  nauseating  to  him.  Wade  smiled  at  him  genially  through  a  cloud 
of  tobacco  smoke. 

"I  won't  ask  you  to  join  me  in  three  cheers,  Steve,  and  out  of 
respect  for  your  feeling  in  the  matter  I  won't  indulge  in  them  myself; 
but  say,  don't  look  so  mournful  —  cheer  up!  I  don't  expect  you  to 
enter  into  the  spirit  of  my  joy,  but  do  you  know  there's  a  fellow 
named  Ben  Wade  who's  given  five  priceless  years  of  his  life  to  the 
odd  jobs  of  legal  practice,  runty  little  cases,  where  if  he  snaked  out 
a  five  or  ten  dollar  fee,  it  kept  him  and  his  girl  up  half  the  night 
building  Queen  Anne  cottages!  Well,  from  now  on  Ben  Wade  will 
have  a  free  field  for  his  genius;  the  day  of  odd  jobs  is  over  for  him  — 
he's  come  into  his  own!  Of  course  I  don't  expect  you  to  take  much 
interest  in  the  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor,  for  I  guess  you 
never  sat  up  many  nights  with  your  best  girl  building  Queen  Annes 
with  ten-dollar  bills;  but  if  you  had  ever  known  all  the  things  a  fellow 
can  do  with  a  ten-dollar  bill,  the  torrent  of  hope  that  a  greasy  trifle 
like  that,  earned,  can  pour  into  his  soul;  you'd  understand  why  I'd 
like  to  stick  my  head  out  of  that  window  and  give  three  cheers  for 
myself,  and  your  aunt  —  yes,  and  for  old  Benson,  too  —  God  bless 
him!  I  mustn't  forget  him,  for  he's  done  his  part  in  promoting  the 
welfare  of  a  fellow  being!" 

They  were  silent  again.  Wade  pulled  serenely  at  his  pipe,  and 
Stephen  stared  from  the  window.  He  was  trying  to  fathom  his  rela- 
tion to  the  events  of  which  Wade  had  told  him. 

On  the  street  below,  Gibbs  suddenly  appeared  from  around  a 
corner.  He  paused  when  he  was  opposite  the  building,  and  glanced 
across  uncertainly  at  Wade's  windows;  then  he  hurried  forward  at 
the  best  speed  of  his  old  legs.  Stephen  followed  his  movements  with 
his  glance. 

"What  are  you  looking  at,  Steve?"  asked  Wade. 

"General  Gibbs,  he  seems  to  be  coming  here,"  he  said,  and  then 
they  heard  Gibbs  come  shuffling  up  the  stairs  and  down  the  hall. 
Purple-faced  and  perspiring  the  general  entered  the  room. 

"Is  Steve  here?"  he  demanded  gruffly.  Then  he  saw  the  two 
young  men  by  the  window.  "I  want  to  see  you,  Steve,"  he  said,  ignor- 
ing Wade.  "I  been  out  to  your  aunt's;  Mrs.  Walsh  told  me  I'd  prob- 
ably find  you  here." 

Stephen  glanced  questioningly  at  Wade,  who  quitted  his  chair. 


CHAPTER  FIFTY-ONE  463 

"I'll  just  step  out  for  a  minute;  no  doubt  the  general  will  prefer 
to  see  you  alone."  He  put  down  his  pipe,  and  reached  for  his  hat. 

Gibbs  appeared  to  be  having  some  sort  of  an  attack.  He  was  sput- 
tering and  choking.  Then  he  whirled  furiously  on  Wade. 

"Don't  you  speak  to  me  —  I  forbid  it!"  he  roared.  "You  scoun- 
drelly busybody  —  you  miserable  sneaking  shyster!  Never  speak  to 
me  again,  or  damn  your  soul  —  I'll  strike  you  with  my  cane!" 

Stephen  placed  his  hand  restrainingly  on  the  old  man's  arm,  and 
sought  to  draw  him  toward  the  front  of  the  room.  He  gave  Wade  a 
glance  of  mute  appeal,  but  Wade  was  standing  with  his  hands  buried 
deep  in  his  pockets.  He  was  regarding  Gibbs  with  a  smile  of  kindly 
tolerance.  Resentment  was  remote  from  him.  The  thought  of  his 
success  rested  on  him  like  a  benediction.  He  was  not  to  be  moved  by 
anything  so  impotent  as  the  general's  rage.  He  turned  at  last  with 
a  light  laugh  and  quitted  the  room. 

"I  can't  contain  myself!"  sputtered  the  general.  "If  I  was  ten 
years  younger  —  yes,  five  years  younger,  I'd  horsewhip  him  within 
an  inch  of  his  life  —  yes,  I  would,  by  God!"  He  mopped  his  face 
with  his  handkerchief.  His  burst  of  anger  left  him  helpless  and 
wretched.  "Ain't  it  awful,  Steve?"  he  moaned. 

"Yes,  general.  Here,  sit  down."  He  drew  forward  the  chair 
Wade  had  vacated,  and  the  general  collapsed  weakly  into  it. 

"You  know  that  your  aunt  has  charged  Jake  Benson  with  stealing 
—  never  mind  the  legal  points  —  that's  what  it  amounts  to;  Jake 
Benson,  mind  you  — Jake  Benson!"  his  voice  rose  in  a  thin  quaver 
of  anguish. 

"It's  not  so  bad  as  that,"  said  Stephen. 

"I  heard  it  all!"  cried  Gibbs,  in  a  shocked  voice.  "She  came  there 
to  the  office,  and  before  us  all,  charged  him  with  fraud  —  charged 
Jake  Benson  —  my  God  —  my  God!  What  does  it  all  mean,  Steve; 
can  you  tell  me  that?" 

"It  means  a  suit,"  said  Stephen  sadly. 

"But  Jake  Benson  never  done  it  —  he  couldn't!  I've  known  him 
all  my  life;  he's  stood  at  the  very  head  of  his  profession;  he's  built 
a  great  reputation,  and  now  —  it's  a  conspiracy  to  pull  him  down!" 

"I  don't  understand  it,  but  Wade  has  certain  evidence - 

"I  don't  believe  it!"  shouted  the  old  man.  "Steve,  they've  cor- 
rupted your  judgment.  You  know  he  couldn't  do  it.  Any  other  man 
might,  but  he  couldn't  —  he  just  couldn't!' 

"How  is  he  ?  Was  he  terribly  shaken?" 


464  THE  LANDRAYS 

"He  must  be,  Steve.  How  could  it  be  otherwise?  But  he  don't 
show  it  to  look  at  him.  He's  going  round  with  his  head  up  just  as  if 
nothing  had  happened,  but  take  my  word  for  it  he  feels  it  through 
and  through.  I  know  Jake  Benson.  What  he  says  or  shows,  is  the 
smallest  part  of  what  he  feels.  He's  cut  to  the  quick;  and  can  you 
wonder  at  it  ? " 

"Of  course,"  said  Stephen  gently. 

The  old  man  placed  a  tremulous  hand  on  his  arm. 

"But  you  feel  for  him,  Steve;  you  ain't  given  yourself,  body  and 
soul,  to  the  traitors." 

"No,  no;  I  am  more  sorry  than  I  can  say  that  I  should  seem  to 
have  any  part  in  this." 

"Yet  this  is  why  you  left  him,  Steve!"  said  Gibbs  reproachfully. 

"He  sent  me  away,  general;  at  least,  he  made  it  so  I  could  not 
stay." 

"He  wants  to  see  you.  He  wants  you  to  come  to  the  house  to- 
night. He'd  like  it  if  you'd  dine  with  us." 

But  Stephen  hesitated. 

"Come,  you  can't  deny  him  that,  Steve,"  Gibbs  insisted.  "You 
won't.  Let  me  go  back  and  tell  him  you'll  be  there.  Just  remember 
the  friend  he's  been  to  you." 

"But  do  you  know  why  he  wants  me  ?" 

"I  haven't  the  least  idea.  Let  me  tell  him  you'll  come!"  entreated 
Gibbs. 

"Very  well,  but  I'll  come  after  dinner,"  said  Stephen. 

"You  won't  dine  with  us  ?" 

"I  can't,  general;"  and  his  tone  was  so  final,  that  Gibbs  forebore 
to  urge  him  further. 

"I'll  tell,  Jake  then,  that  you'll  drop  in  during  the  evening,"  he 
said  as  he  took  his  leave. 

Stephen  did  not  tell  Wade  of  his  promise,  and  he  did  not  tell  Vir- 
ginia, but  after  supper  at  the  cottage  he  excused  himself  and  set  out 
for  the  lawyer's.  He  found  Benson  and  Gibbs  waiting  his  coming  over 
their  wine. 

Benson  welcomed  him  kindly  and  as  though  nothing  had  hap- 
pened to  mar  their  relation;  while  the  general  nodded  and  winked 
reassuringly  over  a  long  and  very  black  cigar. 

They  talked  of  indifferent  things  for  a  time,  and  if  he  had  not 
known  of  the  events  of  that  morning,  Stephen  would  have  supposed 
that  nothing  unusual  had  taken  place,  and  that  the  day  had  been 


CHAPTER  FIFTY-ONE  465 

like  many  other  days  at  the  office.  Even  Gibbs  had  recovered  from  the 
shock  of  Virginia's  charge,  and  save  that  he  looked  a  little  haggard, 
there  was  nothing  to  indicate  the  strain  of  the  emotions  by  which  he 
had  been  buffeted  earlier  in  the  day.  As  for  Benson  himself,  he  was 
as  inscrutable  as  ever.  His  face  told  no  secrets.  At  last  he  rose  from 
his  chair. 

"Stay  here,  Gibbs,"  he  said  to  the  general.  And  to  Stephen. 
"Come  with  me;"  and  Stephen  followed  him  into  the  library. 

Benson  closed  the  door  after  them.  Then  he  went  to  his  desk.  In 
the  woodwork  just  above  it,  a  small  iron  safe  was  cleverly  concealed, 
having  been  built  into  the  wall  itself.  It  was,  Stephen  knew,  the  re- 
ceptacle of  many  of  Benson's  private  papers.  He  unlocked  it  and  took 
from  one  of  the  pigeon-holes  a  long  envelope.  He  turned  to  Stephen 
with  this  in  his  hand. 

"  Please  sit  down  here  by  the  light,"  he  indicated  a  chair  by  the 
table.  From  the  envelope  which  he  now  opened,  he  produced  several 
sheets  of  paper.  "I  sent  for  you  because  I  think  it  is  only  right  that 
you  should  know  the  full  significance  of  this  paper  I  have  in  my 
hand.  I  had  not  expected  its  contents  would  be  made  known  to  you 
until  after  my  death;  but,  recent  events  have  altered  my  intentions  in 
this  respect.  Will  you  oblige  me  by  reading  it  from  beginning  to 
end."  He  smoothed  out  the  several  sheets  as  he  spoke,  and  handed 
them  to  Stephen;  then  he  lighted  a  cigar.  "Kindly  read  it  carefully; 
it  concerns  you  vitally." 

And  Stephen  drawing  the  lamp  toward  him  did  as  he  desired. 
There  was  a  page  devoted  to  a  number  of  small  bequests  to  old  ser- 
vants; next  followed  careful  instructions  relating  to  certain  invest- 
ments'that  were  to  be  made  to  create  an  annuity  for  Gibbs;  a  similar 
provision  was  made  for  his  Julia;  and  then  Stephen  came  upon  his 
own  name.  He  saw  that  Benson  had  made  him  his  heir.  He  was 
prepared  for  this  in  a  measure,  but  he  was  not  prepared  for  the 
amount  that  was  devised  for  his  benefit,  for  the  lawyer  had  given  a 
methodical  and  accurate  description  of  the  properties  he  owned  with 
the  approximate  value  of  each. 

Stephen  had  believed  him  a  very  rich  man,  but  the  will  was  a 
revelation  to  him;  his  actual  wealth  was  far  in  excess  of  anything  he 
had  ever  supposed  possible. 

When  he  came  to  the  end  of  the  last  sheet  of  paper,  he  carefully 
folded  them  and  handed  them  back  to  Benson.  The  lawyer  waited 
for  him  to  speak,  but  he  said  nothing.  He  was  thinking  of  the  aston- 


466  THE  LANDRAYS 

ishing  revelation  that  Benson  had  just  made.  It  was  true  he  had  once 
expected  to  inherit  from  him,  but  never  such  a  fortune  as  this. 

"I  want  you  to  tell  your  Aunt  Virginia  of  the  existence  of  this  will," 
said  Benson  slowly.  "You  saw  from  the  date  that  it  was  drawn  up 
since  you  left  college  —  no,  wait;"  for  Stephen  seemed  about  to 
interrupt  him.  "I  merely  ask  you  to  make  her  acquainted  with  the 
facts  with  which  you  are  now  familiar.  You  may  add  the  assurance 
as  coming  from  me,  that  it  is  the  last  will  I  shall  make,  unless  — 
he  paused,  as  if  to  choose  his  words,  but  only  said  abruptly, 
"Tell  her  what  you  now  know." 

The  reading  of  the  will  had  moved  Stephen  profoundly,  for  it 
had  made  plain  to  him  just  the  regard  in  which  he  had  been  held  by 
Benson. 

"You  will  tell  her,  Stephen  ?"  the  lawyer  urged. 

"No,"  said  Stephen,  weighing  the  matter  deliberately,  "I  can't 
tell  her." 

"Why  not?" 

"Why,  don't  you  see,  if  I  told  her  of  this  will,  and  the  condi- 
tion —  "  he  hesitated. 

"What  condition  ?  I  have  made  none." 

"But  one  is  implied." 

Benson  was  silent;  he  did  not  dispute  this  point. 

"If  she  knew  of  that  will  she  would  drop  everything.  There  is  no 
sacrifice  she  will  not  make  for  those  she  loves." 

"Yes,"  said  Benson  shortly,  and  with  great  bitterness,  "just  as 
she  will  sacrifice  any  one  she  does  not  love,  for  the  sake  of  those  she 
does." 

"I  really  don't  see  why  she  should  care  for  me.  I  am  not  conscious 
of  having  done  anything  to  merit  it." 

"You  are  a  Landray,"  said  Benson. 

"No,  it's  more  than  that,"  said  Stephen. 

"Will  you  tell  her  of  the  will?"  repeated  Benson. 

"No,  Uncle  Jake,  I  can't  tell  her,"  said  Stephen  doggedly. 

"You  could  do  justice  by  her." 

"She  would  never  accept  it  from  me;  at  least,  she  would  not  feel 
the  same." 

"And  you  will  not  tell  her  ?" 

"I  can't,  Uncle  Jake,"  said  Stephen  quietly. 

Benson  struck  the  papers  open  with  his  hand. 

"You  will  not  tell  her?"  he  repeated  again.  Then  he  struck  a 


CHAPTER  FIFTY-ONE  467 

match.  Stephen  thought  it  was  to  light  his  cigar,  which  had  gone 
out. 

"No,  neither  now  or  later  —  certainly  at  no  future  time;  I  had 
much  rather  she  never  knew." 

"She  never  will,"  said  Benson  grimly.  He  held  the  still  burning 
match  in  his  fingers.  He  glanced  again  at  Stephen,  and  then  thought- 
fully applied  it  to  the  sheets  of  paper  one  by  one.  As  the  flames  crept 
up  them,  he  dropped  them  on  the  hearth  of  the  empty  fireplace.  Once 
he  stirred  them  with  the  toe  of  his  boot. 

Stephen  watched  him  without  visible  emotion.  It  had  all  happened 
so  quickly  that  he  hardly  yet  understood  that  he  had  relinquished  a 
great  fortune.  When  the  last  vestige  of  what  had  been  his  will  was 
destroyed,  Benson  raised  his  eyes  from  the  contemplation  of  the 
little  heap  of  grey  ashes  that  remained  in  witness  of  his  act. 

"You  will  always  have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  you  sacri- 
ficed a  fortune  to  a  nice  sense  of  honour,"  he  said  cynically. 

"I  am  very  sorry  that  I  could  not  do  what  you  wished,"  said  Ste- 
phen awkwardly.  "  But  I  am  grateful  to  you  for  showing  me  what 
you  did." 

"Why  ?"  asked  Benson  curiously. 

"Because  I  understand  now  just  how  you  must  have  felt  toward 
me,"  he  said  simply.  M 

"I  trust  the  realization  of  that  is  a  satisfaction  to  you,    observec 

Benson  coldly. 

"It  is,"  said  Stephen. 

"We  will  go  back  to  Gibbs,"  said  Benson,  rising  abruptly. 

"Please  say  good-night  to  the  general  for  me,"  said  Stephen  rising, 
too.  "I  think  I  will  go  home."  He  held  out  his  hand  with  frank  good 
feeling.  Benson  touched  it  with  the  tips  of  his  fingers. 

"Good-night,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  FIFTY-TWO 

STEPHEN  did  not  see  Benson  again,  and  he  confided  to  no  one 
the  purpose  the  lawyer  had  in  mind  when  he  sent  for  him.  He 
had  two  reasons  for  this.  He  did  not  want  his  aunt  to  know  of 
the  sacrifice  he  had  made;  and  after  a  time  he  came  to  feel  that  the 
whole  incident  had  been  discreditable  to  Benson  himself.  He  would 
have  made  him  his  heir,  not  because  he  longer  cared  for  him,  but 
because  it  would  have  quieted  Virginia.  In  the  end  he  found  he  had 
carried  away  the  impression  that  a  bribe  had  been  offered  him. 

As  Wade  had  foreseen,  the  news  of  Virginia's  demand  speedily 
became  public  property;  but  there  was  nothing  in  Benson's  attitude 
to  indicate  that  he  was  conscious  of  the  buzzing  tongues  of  gossip 
that  were  everywhere.  He  carried  his  head  a  little  higher,  that  was 
all.  No  man  could  say  he  feared  to  meet  his  glance;  and  there  were 
those  who  said  he  was  dead  to  all  sense  of  shame.  These  were  willing 
to  think  ill  of  him  on  general  principles,  and  not  because  they  had 
any  reason  to.  There  was  another  faction,  however,  all  sympathy  for 
him.  They  denounced  Virginia's  charge  as  the  irresponsible  attempt 
of  a  woman  to  levy  blackmail.  It  was  remembered  as  something  not 
quite  creditable  to  her  that  she  had  always  been  peculiar,  and  had 
held  herself  aloof  from  the  town  and  its  social  life.  But  by  far  the 
bitterest  denunciation^  were  heaped  upon  Stephen.  He  was  held  to 
be  a  base  ingrate,  who  had  turned  on  his  benefactor  and  had  joined 
with  Virginia  to  despoil  him  of  at  least  a  portion  of  his  wealth. 

Stephen  felt  the  injustice  of  the  position  in  which  he  was  placed; 
and  Virginia  felt  it  for  him  and  for  herself.  They  would  both  have 
liked  to  run  away  from  the  consequence  of  her  act  had  it  been 
possible. 

Yet  few  people  took  the  case  quite  seriously  in  its  ultimate  aspect. 
There  were  even  those  who  were  disposed  to  chaff  Ben  Wade;  but 
his  air  of  quiet  self-confidence,  his  smiling  reticence,  and  his  genial 
good  nature  in  the  face  of  ridicule  had  its  effect,  just  as  he  intended 

468 


CHAPTER  FIFTY-TWO  469 

it  should.  He  prepared  and  filed  his  papers  in  the  case,  and  it  was 
whispered  that  they  were  models  in  their  way. 

Benson,  although  he  had  become  an  object  of  widespread  and 
general  interest,  neither  shunned  nor  avoided  the  public's  gaze, 
its  stare  of  covert  inquiry.  He  went  his  way  in  undisturbed  serenity, 
and  with  no  sign  of  shame  or  fear.  He  was  as  impressive  as  ever. 
The  same  austerely  kind,  dignified,  figure  he  had  always  been;  and 
his  air  of  pleasant  patronage  and  courtesy  suffered  no  eclipse;  and 
the  most  bitter  of  his  detractors  yielded  him  what  he  by  his  very  man- 
ner claimed  for  himself,  and  had  claimed  these  many  years. 

It  was  only  poor  old  Gibbs  who  showed  shame  and  fear,  and  no 
one  noticed  him.  He  would  gladly  have  hidden  himself  away  some- 
where if  he  could;  but  he  could  not;  and  so  he  slunk  in  and  out  of  the 
office,  looking  no  man  in  the  face  where  he  could  avoid  it.  He  had 
expected  Benson  to  rise  in  the  might  of  his  spotless  integrity  and 
silence  Virginia.  But  most  of  all  he  had  looked  for  him  to  punish 
Ben  Wade  for  the  part  he  had  played  in  the  matter.  But  he  either 
would  not  or  could  not  do  anything  of  the  kind,  and  a  cruel  suspi- 
cion, the  first  he  had  known,  began  to  obtrude  itself  upon  him.  What 
if  it  were  true,  what  if  Benson  had  defrauded  Virginia!  But  this 
was  so  utterly  inconceivable  to  him,  that  he  never  really  believed  it. 

Each  day  he  stole  down  to  the  office,  choosing  his  way  through 
alleys  and  by  unfrequented  side  streets,  expecting  that  something 
would  be  done.  Surely  Benson  must  decide  who  was  to  defend  the 
suit  for  him;  and  Gibbs  wanted  to  feel  the  excitement  of  those  prepa- 
rations. But  each  day  he  was  doomed  to  disappointment.  The  sub- 
ject was  never  even  mentioned  between  them.  He  had  hoped  that 
Benson  would  make  some  denial  to  him,  so  that  he  might  know  of  a 
certainty  just  how  false  Virginia's  accusations  were;  but  the  denial  was 
never  made;  and  so  far  as  he  knew  nothing  was  done.  Apparently  not 
ing  would  be  done.  Was  it  possible  that  Benson  did  not  intend  to  cc 
test  the  suit!  His  anguish,  for  it  amounted  to  that,  left  deep  1 
on  his  splotched  and  bloated  old  face.  The  earth,  the  solid  earth  that 
had  rested  secure  in  the  very  shadow  of  Benson's  greatness,  s< 
slipping  out  from  beneath  his  feet. 

In  this  stress,  unrebuked,  he  took  to  drink.  Night  after  night  h 
ried  a  tall  bottle  home  hidden  under  his  coat  and  his  Julia  was  power 
less  to  control  him.  She  could  hear  him  for  half  the  night,  as  sh 
on  her  bed  in  the  room  over  the  small  parlour   stamping  abc 
his  stockinged  feet,  or  lurching  through  the  hall  to  the  water-cooler 


470  THE  LANDRAYS 

that  stood  on  the  sideboard  in  the  little  dining-room,  muttering  to 
himself  as  he  went,  and  his  mutterings  were  querulous  cursings  of 
Wade  and  Virginia. 

All  day  at  the  office  he  watched  Benson  with  eyes  that  held  a  dog- 
like  devotion,  and  each  time  the  lawyer  called  him  to  his  side,  he 
shuffled  eagerly  into  his  presence,  thinking  now  surely  he  would  say 
something;  but  it  was  never  what  he  wanted  to  hear  from  his  lips. 
The  days  wasted  themselves  and  nothing  was  done. 

Perhaps  Benson  would  have  found  it  difficult  to  explain  his  atti- 
tude had  he  felt  called  upon  to  do  so.  He  was  conscious  that  he  had 
no  wish  to  exert  himself.  He  was  strangely  indifferent  to  the  whole 
course  of  events.  The  thing  that  hurt  him  most  was  the  realization 
that  Virginia  would  never  know  why  he  had  wronged  her.  She  would 
probably  go  on  to  the  end  of  her  days,  firm  in  the  conviction  that  the 
money  itself  had  been  his  sole  object.  He  reverted  more  and  more  to 
the  days  of  his  generous  love.  In  the  light  of  his  awakened  memory, 
the  present  bore  less  and  less  upon  him.  He  had  yielded  up  a  life- 
time's devotion  and  had  lost  everything — love  itself,  reputation,  the 
approval  of  his  own  conscience;  and  now  he  was  to  be  exposed.  In 
the  end  he  would  stand  amidst  the  wreck  of  every  purpose  and  hope. 

He  had  even  lost  Stephen.  The  boy  had  developed  character  and 
determination  where  he  had  least  expected  him  to  display  these 
qualities.  He  had  desired  him  to  be  merely  a  gentleman.  He  smiled 
cynically.  He  had  trained  him  better  than  he  knew. 

But  if  he  carried  his  head  high,  and  gave  no  sign  of  fear  or  shame 
or  remorse,  he  was  yet  living  under  a  terrible  strain. 

Gibbs  noticed  that  his  shaven  cheeks  were  growing  hollow,  and 
that  while  on  the  street,  or  where  he  felt  that  he  was  being  ob- 
served, he  was  as  erect  and  active  as  ever;  when  they  were  alone  to- 
gether his  shoulders  drooped,  the  vigour  seemed  to  leave  him,  and 
he  moved  slowly  and  wearily.  He  scarcely  allowed  Gibbs  out  of  his 
sight.  Each  day  he  took  him  home  to  dine  with  him.  These 
dinners  were  cheerless  enough.  Benson  was  invariably  silent  and 
absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts,  and  the  general  was  permitted  to 
drug  himself  with  old  port;  and  his  usually  careful  host  did  not 
seem  to  be  aware  of  the  advantage  he  was  taking  of  the  situation. 

Three  weeks  had  now  elapsed,  and  Gibbs  befuddled  but  faithful  and 
devoted,  was  spending  the  evening  with  his  friend.  They  were  sit- 
ting in  the  library  over  their  wine  and  cigars.  At  last  Benson  glanced 
at  the  clock  on  the  mantel,  and  rose  slowly  from  his  chair. 


CHAPTER  FIFTY-TWO  471 

"You'd  better  go  home,  Gibbs,"  he  said.  "It's  late,  and  I  don't 
think  Julia  likes  your  being  kept  out  at  all  hours." 

"How  do  you  feel,  Jake  ?"  asked  Gibbs,  rising  too. 

"How  should  I  feel?"  demanded  the  laywer  sharply.  Then  his 
manner  softened.  "It's  very  good  of  you  to  take  care  of  me  as  you  do, 
Gibbs.  The  evenings  would  be  very  lonely  without  you."  He  rested 
his  hand  affectionately  on  thf  ^eneral's  arm. 

Gibbs  was  instantly  on  the  verge  of  tears,  he  was  so  stirred  by  the 
other's  gentleness  and  kindness. 

"I  am  afraid  I  bore  you  more  than  I  do  anything  else,  Jake," 
he  said  brusquely.  "It's  only  your  goodness  that  allows  you  to  see 
how  damn  fond  I  am  of  you,  and  let  that  make  amends  for  the  mul- 
titude of  my  shortcomings." 

They  had  moved  into  the  hall  as  he  spoke,  but  Benson  still  rested 
his  hand  on  his  arm. 

"You're  a  better  fellow  than  you'll  ever  know,  Gibbs/'  he 
said. 

"I  guess  not,"  said  Gibbs  chokingly. 

Benson  so  rarely  spoke  out  of  keeping  with  his  habitual  reserve 
that  his  words  seemed  weighted  with  the  solemnity  of  some  final 
utterance. 

"Andrew  will  be  around  presently  to  put  out  the  lights  and  close 
the  house.  You  need  not  call  him,  it  will  be  all  right;  Good- 
night;" and  he  moved  toward  the  stairway. 

"Good-night,  Jake;"  and  with  his  hand  on  the  door-knob  Gibbs 
turned  to  look  after  him.  He  noticed  the  droop  to  his  shoulders,  that 
he  walked  with  a  lagging  step,  and  his  heart  swelled  with  pity  for 
this  patient,  stricken  friend. 

"Jake!"  he  called  in  a  voice  shaken  by  emotion.  He  wanted  to  say 
something,  to  let  him  know  that  he  suffered,  too,  that  he  did  not 
believe  one  word  of  all  that  had  been  said;  that  he  could  not  and 
never  had. 

Benson  turned  quickly,  and  his  foot  seemed  to  catch  in  the  fringe 
of  the  rug  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  The  rug  slipped  treacherously 
across  the  polished  floor,  and  the  lawyer  fell  with  a  startled  cry. 

Gibbs,  his  old  knees  knocking  together  in  his  terror,  hurried  to  his 
side,  and  bent  over  the  prostrate  man. 

"Jake  are  you  hurt?"  he  cried.  But  Benson  did  not  answer  him. 
Kneeling  down,  he  strove  to  raise  his  head.  He  jerked  away  his  hand 
with  a  startled  cry  of  dismay.  There  was  blood  upon  it;  for  as 


472  THE  LANDRAYS 

fell,  Benson's  head  had  come  in  contact  with  the  sharp  edge  of  the 
bottom  step. 

Gibbs  glanced  about  him  helplessly.  He  had  not  strength  sufficient 
to  lift  him.  Then  he  thought  of  Andrew,  who  must  be  somewhere 
about,  and  he  shouted  his  name;  but  his  voice  echoed  emptily  through 
the  silent  house.  He  was  not  answered.  He  glanced  again  at  Benson, 
and  then  leaving  him,  ran  down  t.:  hall  and  through  the  dining- 
room  to  the  back  of  the  house.  In  the  kitchen  he  found  Andrew 
asleep  in  his  chair.  He  shook  him  roughly  by  the  arm. 

"Come,  wake  up!"  he  cried.  "Mr.  Benson's  had  a  fall!" 

The  man  stirred  sleepily,  and  opened  his  eyes. 

"What's  that  you  say,  sir  ?"  he  asked. 

"Jake's  stumbled  on  the  stairs,  you  fool  —  come  with  me!"  he 
shrieked. 

But  when  they  reached  the  hall,  they  found  that  Benson  had  re- 
covered consciousness,  and  was  sitting  up  with  a  dazed  expression 
on  his  face. 

"How  did  it  happen  ?"  he  asked  of  Gibbs. 

"You  slipped  on  the  rug,  and  you  got  a  nasty  fall,"  said  Gibbs. 

Benson  put  his  hand  to  his  head,  but  took  it  away  quickly. 

"I  seem  to  have  cut  myself,"  he  said. 

"Do  you  think  you  are  much  hurt,  Jake?  Here,  wait  a  minute, 
Andrew  and  I'll  help  you  up  —  the  other  side,  Andrew  —  take  him 
by  the  arm." 

To  get  the  lawyer  on  his  feet  was  a  more  difficult  task  than  Gibbs 
had  anticipated;  but  when  at  last  he  had  accomplished  this,  with 
the  servant's  aid,  Benson  seemed  unable  to  hold  himself  in  the  posi- 
tion in  which  he  had  been  placed. 

"Take  me  to  my  room,"  he  said  weakly. 

They  got  him  up-stairs  and  undressed  and  in  bed,  and  then  Gibbs 
sent  Andrews  down-stairs  for  brandy,  his  own  unfailing  panacea. 

"As  soon  as  he  brings  that,  he'll  go  for  a  doctor.  How  do  you  feel 
now,  Jake  ?"  said  Gibbs. 

"I  seem  more  confused  than  hurt;  it  was  the  surprise,  the  sud- 
den shock,"  said  Benson. 

"Who  shall  I  send  for  ?"  asked  Gibbs. 

"No  one,  yet.  As  soon  as  Andrew  comes,  take  my  keys  —  you'll 
find  them  in  my  pocket  —  and  go  to  the  safe  in  the  library.  There's 
a  paper  there  I  want  you  to  bring  me.  It's  in  a  long  yellow  envelope, 
you  can't  miss  it." 


CHAPTER  FIFTY-TWO  473 

''^,everJ1™!ld  y°ur  PaPers»  Jake>  a  doctor's  more  to  the  pur- 
pose,   said  Gibbs,  but  the  injured  man  moved  impatiently. 
'Do  as  I  say!"  he  whispered. 

"Just  as  you  like,  Jake,"  said  Gibbs  soothingly,  and  as  soon  as 
Andrew  came  with  the  brandy  he  hurried  down-stairs  and  foMnd 
the  papers  as  Benson  had  directed.  "Now  are  you  ready  for  Andrew 
to  go  for  the  doctor?"  he  asked,  as  he  re-entered  the  room  and 
placed  the  paper  in  Benson's  hand. 

"Not  yet,  Gibbs.  Get  pen  and  ink  —  and  Andrew,  you  go  rouse 
the  cook.  Tell  her  to  come  here  as  quick  as  she  can." 

When  Andrew  had  gone  he  said  to  Gibbs. 

"It's  my  will,  and  it's  unsigned." 


CHAPTER  FIFTY-THREE 

STEPHEN  was  aroused  by  hearing  knocking  at  the  front  door. 
He  slipped  from  his  bed  and  went  to  his  window  which  over- 
looked the  front  of  the  house. 

"Who's  there?  "he,  called. 

"It's  Andrew,  sir"  a  voice  answered  from  the  darkness  below, 
and  an  indistinct  figure  emerged  from  the  shadow  of  the  house. 
"Mr.  Benson  has  had  a  fall,  sir.  You  are  not  to  be  alarmed,  but  he 
wants  to  see  you." 

"Wait  a  moment,"  said  Stephen,  and  he  struck  a  match,  lighted 
the  gas,  and  dressed  hurriedly.  As  he  quitted  the  house,  he  stopped 
at  Virginia's  door,  and  told  her  what  had  happened,  then  he  joined 
Andrew. 

As  they  strode  down  the  deserted  street,  Andrew  more  fully  de- 
scribed the  accident. 

"  But  was  he  alone  at  the  time  ?" 

"No,  sir,  General  Gibbs  was  with  him/' 

"And  is  still  with  him,  I  suppose  ?  But  you  have  been  for  a  doctor  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  stopped  at  Dr.  Anderson's  as  I  come  along." 

"Do  you  know  whose  idea  it  was  that  you  should  come  for  me  ?" 
asked  Stephen  with  sudden  doubt.  He  could  hardly  believe  that 
Benson  had  sent  for  him. 

"Mr.  Benson  wanted  you." 

"Are  you  sure  ?  He  gave  you  the  order  ?" 

"I  was  in  the  room.  I  heard  him  tell  the  general  that  I  was  to 
come  for  you." 

Stephen  quickened  his  pace.  He  asked  no  more  questions. 

When  they  reached  the  house,  he  left  the  man  in  the  lower  hall, 
and  hurried  up  to  Benson's  room.  Here  he  found  Gibbs  and  Dr. 
Anderson,  who  had  preceded  him  by  some  minutes,  and  had  already 
finished  his  examination  of  the  injured  man.  Stephen  went  at  once 
to  the  bedside,  Gibbs  giving  place  to  him. 

.474 


*         CHAPTER  FIFTY-THREE  47S 

"This  is  too  bad,  Uncle  Jake,"  he  said  cheerily.  "I  am  more  sorry 
than  I  can  say." 

Benson  turned  slightly  on  his  pillow,  and  regarded  the  young  fel- 
low with  a  look  of  wistful  affection. 

"You  will  not  go  away  again,  Stephen,"  he  said  in  a  voice  that 
was  raised  scarcely  above  a  whisper. 

Stephen  was  shocked  at  the  change  he  saw  in  him.  The  hale  vigor- 
ous man  seemed  to  have  shrunk  and  dwindled  appallingly.  He  moved 
a  chair  to  the  bedside  and  seated  himself. 

"Dr.  Anderson  says  it's  nothing  but  the  sudden  jar  and  shock. 
That  he'll  be  all  right  in  the  morning;"  it  was  Gibbs  who  spoke, 

"Of  course  he  will,"  said  Stephen  heartily. 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Benson  drily.  Then  he  lay  back  without  speech 
or  movement,  but  his  glance  was  fixed  yearningly  on  Stephen's  face. 

At  the  other  side  of  the  room  Gibbs  and  Dr.  Anderson  were  speak- 
ing together  in  whispers.  Gibbs  was  giving  the  physician  the  particu- 
lars of  the  accident.  Presently  the  general  went  softly  from  the  room 
to  find  Andrew,  whom  he  wished  to  send  with  a  message  to  his  Julia. 
He  was  only  gone  for  a  moment;  and  came  stealing  back  on  tiptoe. 
He  had  been  all  but  drunk  earlier  in  the  evening;  but  he  was  per- 
fectly sober  now.  He  crept  to  the  bedside,  for  he  did  not  know  whether 
Benson  slept  or  not.  When  he  saw  that  he  was  awake,  he  asked 
huskily. 

"How  do  you  feel  now,  Jake  —  some  better  r" 

"I  am  resting  very  well,  Gibbs;  but  you  had  better  go  to  bed, 
you  look  worn  out." 

"No,  no  —  I  am  doing  very  well.  Don't  you  worry  about  me. 
I've  just  sent  my  Julia  word  of  what's  happened,  so  she'll  under- 
stand why  I  won't  be  home  to-night." 

"I  hope  you  didn't  unnecessarily  alarm  her,"  said  Benson  with 
concern. 

"No,  I  told  her  it  was  nothing  serious,  but  that  I  didn't  like  to 
leave  you;  though  you'd  be  in  the  best  of  hands,  with  Steve  and  the 
doctor  here,  if  I  did.'1 

Benson  closed  his  eyes,  and  seemed  to  sleep;  and  presently  Ste- 
phen left  his  side  and  drew  Gibbs  out  into  the  hall. 

"What  does  Dr.  Anderson  say,  general?"  he  asked. 

"Come  further  away  from  the  door,"  said  Gibbs.  'I'm  afraid 
he'll  hear  us  and  be  disturbed;"  and  he  led  the  way  down  the  hall. 
Stephen  saw  that  the  air  of  confidence  with  which  he  had  I 


THE  LANDRAYS 

himself  in  the  sick-room  had  quite  left  him  now  that  they  were  alone 
together.  "Well,  the  doctor  don't  say  much,"  said  Gibbs,  sinking 
his  voice  to  a  whisper. 

"But  he  hasn't  given  you  to  understand  that  he  fears  any  serious 
consequences  from  the  fall?"  said  Stephen  anxiously.  "Of  course, 
any  severe  shock  at  his  age  would  be  more  or  less  serious." 

"It  ain't  his  age,  Steve.  I  reckon  I'm  eight  or  ten  years  older  than 
he;  but  you  could  roll  me  down  those  stairs  drunk  or  sober,  and  I'd 
be  on  my  legs  in  ten  minutes  and  as  good  as  ever.  It  ain't  the  shock  I 
fear  for  him,  it's  those  terrible  charges  your  aunt's  made  against 
him  that's  sapping  his  strength.  I  don't  need  to  ask  you  if  you  saw 
any  change  in  him  ?" 

"But  he  has  seemed  not  to  feel  it." 

"I  guess  I'm  the  only  man  alive  that  knows  anything  about  the 
inside  of  Jake  Benson's  brain.  That  foot  doctor  said  that,  too, 
said  it  was  only  the  shock  of  the  fall;  but  I  don't  know  that  it  makes 
much  difference  where  he's  concerned,  for  you  can't  dose  a  man  for 
a  broken  heart;  and  that's  the  big  part  of  what's  the  matter  of  Jake 
this  minute." 

"I  hope  not,"  said  Stephen  gravely. 

"He's  let  go.  I  can  see  it  in  his  eyes.  He'll  never  want  to  get  out  of 
that  bed!"  moaned  the  old  man,  giving  way  to  a  sudden  passion  of 
grief.  "He'll  hide  himself  there  until  he  dies,  he'll  never  muster 
strength  to  face  the  evil-tongued  gossiping  world  again!" 

"You  mustn't  think  that,  general.  He'll  be  himself  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

"Never!  He  ain't  been  himself  in  weeks  past.  I've  seen  his  heart 
break!  I've  looked  on  and  seen  it  break  —  and  could  never  find  one 
word  of  comfort  to  give  him!  For  all  I  know  he  thinks  this  minute 
that  I  misjudged  him,  too,  that  but  for  my  dependence  on  him, 
I'd  turn  against  him,  too,  like  all  the  rest!"  and  the  tears  trickled 
down  his  bloated  cheeks.  "I  wish  to  God  I  could  let  him  know  just 
how  I  feel  toward  him  —  but  I  never  can  —  I  never  will!  He'll  die, 
and  never  know!" 

"I'm  sure  he  understands,  general,"  said  Stephen  gently.  "And 
I  am  sure  he  relies  on  you  as  he  does  on  no  one  else." 

"Do  you  think  that,  Steve,  do  you  really  think  he  knows  how  I 
feel  about  him  ?  I've  wanted  to  tell  him,  but  by  God,  I  can't  insult  a 
man  like  him  by  even  letting  him  know  that  I  hear  what  people  are 
saying  and  believing!  Damn  them  because  they're  a  foul-hearted, 


CHAPTER  FIFTY-THREE  477 

foul-mouthed,  tribe  of  ghouls!  I  don't  blame  your  aunt;  but  I  do 
blame  Ben  Wade;  and  by  God!  I've  known  the  time  when  he  and  I 
couldn't  have  lived  in  the  same  town  without  bloodshed!" 

It  was  in  vain  that  Stephen  strove  to  calm  him.  The  barriers  of 
his  silence  were  down.  Here  was  some  one  with  whom  he  could  freely 
speak,  and  he  was  not  to  be  restrained. 

"Who'd  a  thought  that  with  all  I  been  through,  I'd  have  lived  to 
such  a  thin-blooded  old  age,  where  my  friends  can't  count  on  me 
to  do  for  them  the  things  they  can  no  longer  do  for  themselves!  Since 
your  father  died,  Steve,  I  haven't  cared  for  any  man  the  way  I  care 
for  Jake  Benson.  I  was  some  use  to  your  father;  but  I'm  not  a  damn 
bit  of  use  to  Jake." 

"  But  you  mustn't  take  this  view  of  the  case,"  urged  Stephen, 
"After  all,  he  will  probably  be  up  and  about  in  the  morning." 

"Do  you  think  that,  Steve?"  demanded  Gibbs  with  passionate 
earnestness. 
"Yes." 

"Well,  I  don't!  He'll  never  leave  that  bed  alive!" 
They  went  back  into  the  room,  but  there  was  no  appreciable 
change  in  Benson's  condition.  He  slept,  or  seemed  to  sleep,  and 
Gibbs  was  finally  prevailed  upon  to  go  into  the  next  room  and  he 
down,  while  Stephen  and  Doctor  Anderson  watched  the  sick  man. 
And  while  they  watched,  the  night  wore  on;  and  at  last  the  cold  grey 
of  dawn  filled  the  room;  and  the  lamp  they  had  kept  burning  on  a 
stand  back  of  a  screen  in  one  corner  of  the  room,  was  extingu] 

By  this  time  the  whole  household  was  awake.  They  heard 
vants  moving  about  below  stairs;  and  presently  Andrew 
softly  on  the  door,  and  told  them  that  breakfast  was  served 
went  down  alone,  and  then  relieved  the  doctor;  next  ( 
called,  and   breakfasted,  and  it  was  midmornmg;  b 
lay  as  he  had  during  the  greater  part  of  the  night. 

Julia   came  and  established  herself  in  the  region  b 
assuming  the  direction  of  the  household.  The  sick-room  she  1 


^ 

as  he  had  not  before  done,  to  Stephen  and  G.bbs.  At 

St"PD?yo°u "hint  Stephen,  tbat  your  aunt  could  be  induced  to  come 
her^Jhumourthewhimofasick  man  -  a  very  su:k  man? 
you  think  she  would  come  if  you  went  for  her 


47?  THE  LANDRAYS 

Stephen's  face  betrayed  the  amazement  he  felt,  for  Benson  said: 

"Does  it  seem  so  singular  a  request  to  you  ?" 

"Why,  no,  Uncle  Jake,"  faltered  the  young  fellow. 

"But  you  think  she'll  not  come  ?"  then  a  look  came  into  his  face 
that  Stephen  did  not  understand.  "I  must  see  her,  Stephen —  now, 
before  it  is  too  late;  will  you  go  for  her  ?" 

"If  you  wish  it  —  yes,"  said  Stephen,  but  his  heart  sank.  What  if 

Virginia  would    refuse,  what  if  he  would   have    to   return  without 

I  her!  But  perhaps  after  all  this  was  only  some  vagary  on  the  part  of 

\  the  sick  man;  perhaps  his  mood  would  have  changed  by  the  time  he 

got  back  —  if  he  went  at  all. 

"Tell  her  it's  an  act  of  charity  to  a  sick  man." 

"  I  think  she  will  come  if  she  thinks  you  really  wish  to  see  her," 
said  Stephen  doubtfully. 

"Will  you  go  for  her  at  once?"  asked  Benson  eagerly.  "Have 
Gibbs  order  the  carriage.  I  want  you  to  go.  Perhaps  you  can  say 
something  that  will  bring  her."  In  his  interest  and  excitement  he 
had  half-risen  from  his  pillow;  now  he  sank  back  weakly.  "Bring 
her  if  you  can,"  he  ended  abruptly. 

But  when  Stephen  was  gone,  he  had  Gibbs  station  himself  by  the 
window,  and  instructed  him  to  announce  when  he  heard  or  saw  the 
returning  carriage.  It  was  already  twilight,  and  the  darkness  deep- 
ened as  the  general  watched  by  the  window.  A  half,  three-quar- 
ters, of  an  hour  passed. 

"She  won't  come!"  muttered  Benson.  The  light  darkened  in  his 
grey  eyes;  but  even  as  he  spoke,  Gibbs  called  out  that  he  heard  the 
carriage  wheels  on  the  drive. 

"  I,an  you  see  whether  Stephen  is  alone  or  not  ? "  demanded  Benson 
with  eager  interest. 

"No,  he's  not  alone,  he's  bringing  Mrs.  Landray,"  said  Gibbs 
after  a  moment's  pause,  in  which  he  had  seen  two  figures  leave  thr 
carriage. 

There  was  the  sound  of  some  one  coming  up  the  stairs,  and  Ste- 
phen opened  the  door  and  entered  the  room.  He  crossed  to  Benson's 
bedside. 

[    "Are  you  ready  to  see  my  aunt,  Uncle  Jake  ?"  he  asked. 
"   "Yes." 

Stephen  beckoned  Gibbs  from  the  room. 

"I  think  he  will  wish  to  see  Aunt  Virginia  alone,"  he  said. 

Virginia  came  slowly  up  the  stairs.  She  passed  Gibbs  and  Stephen, 


CHAPTER  FIFTY-THREE  479 

and  entered  the  room.  The  latter  closed  the  door  after  her.  She  quietly 
approached  Benson's  bedside.  He  heard  the  sweep  of  her  garments; 
he  looked  up  into  her  face;  he  saw  there  a  certain  wonder  and  pity. 

"  It  was  very  good  of  you  to  come,  Virginia.  I  don't  know  that  I 
had  any  right  to  expect  it,"  he  said  softly. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"Won't  you  sit  down,  Virginia  ? " 

She  took  the  chair  at  his  side  as  he  desired. 

"I  am  sorry  to  see  you  ill  and  suffering,"  she  said  at  last,  gently, 
compassionately. 

"I  do  not  suffer.  It  is  nothing,  it  does  not  matter,"  he  said  in- 
differently. 

"  But  you  will  be  well  and  strong  again  soon,"  she  said  encour- 
agingly. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  shall  be.  I  don't  know  that  I  care  to  be.  I 
suppose  you  cannot  understand  why  I  sent  for  you,"  he  said  after 
a  brief  silence. 

"No,"  answered  Virginia.  "After  what  has  happened." 

A  spasm  of  pain  contracted  his  face. 

"I  have  hidden  myself  away  from  that  at  last  —  here,"  he  said. 

"I  wish  we  had  never  known,"  said  Virginia. 

"Do  you,  Virginia  —  why  ?"  he  asked. 

"Because  I  am  indebted  to  you  for  so  many  kindnesses." 

He  made  a  feeble  denial  with  his  hand. 

"You  must  not  doubt  that  justice  is  all  on  your  side.  I  want  to 
tell  you  one  thing;  and  it  was  for  this  that  I  sent  for  you.  My  motives 
were  altogether  different  from  what  you  must  have  supposed  them 
to  have  been.  Later,  perhaps,  they  became  horribly  mixed;  for  things 
divide  themselves  sharply  into  two  sorts  —  right  and  wrong  - 

He  paused,  and  lay  weakly  back  on  his  pillows;  his  eyes,  brilliant 
and  searching,  were  fixed  on  her  face.  He  wanted  her  to  understand, 
to  see  clearly,  what  was  so  plain  to  him;  that  she  might  believe 
him  again,  as  she  had  once  believed  in  him.  ^ 

"You  were  very  kind,  then,"  she  said.  "After  Stephen  s  death  - 

"How  long  ago  it  seems!" 

"You  must  have  suffered!"  she  said  pityingly. 

"At  first  I  expected  that  the  matter  would  right  itself.  I  wished 
compel  you  to  marry  me,  Virginia,  I  dreaded   to  see  you  become 
independent  of  me;  I  wanted  to  keep  you  where  you  would  always 
have  to  come  to  me.   I  wanted  to  serve  you,  and  I  thought  love 


480  THE  LANDRAYS 

might  come  out  of  dependence;  but  I  could  never  have  really  known 
you;  my  God!  how  I  have  loved  you,  Virginia  —  I  think  I  still  love 
you!  I  told  you  once  I  should  die  loving  you  —  and  perhaps  I  am 
dying  now." 

She  gave  him  a  startled  glance,  but  his  pale  face  had  undergone 
no  change.  He  was  still  smiling  up  at  her  —  wistfully,  tenderly. 

"You  were  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  world  to  me,"  he  said 
softly.  "I  loved  you  before  he  went  away  —  and  I  grew  old  and  hard 
in  waiting  —  for  you  never  cared  for  me!  I  became  embittered  and 
angry  with  you  because  you  could  not  love  me  in  return.  How  could 
I  deal  honestly  with  you,  how  could  I  place  riches  in  your  hand  ? 
I  wanted  to  keep  you  here,  for  I  still  had  hope.  But  I  found  I  could 
not  wrong  you,  and  remain  the  man  I  was.  I  changed  so  I  did  not 
know  myself.  Since  I  suffered,  I  was  willing  you  should  suffer;  it 
was  only  right!  The  money  was  nothing  to  me  at  first  but  a  shame 
and  a  reproach;  but  later  I  changed  in  that  even;  money  came  to 
mean  more  and  more  to  me.  From  believing  in  much,  I  came  to  be- 
lieve in  little  —  "  he  paused  again,  and  then  went  on.  "But  as  far  as 
now  lies  within  my  power  I  have  made  it  right.  The  bulk  of  what  I 
leave,  is  yours,  Virginia,  in  tardy  recompense  of  the  wrong  I  did 
you,  a  wrong  I  freely  acknowledge.  Only  in  thinking  of  it,  Virginia, 
think  of  the  motive  that  prompted  it.  As  for  Stephen,  I  have  left  him 
nothing;  since  I  know  what  is  yours  will  be  his.  It  is  better  that  you 
should  do  for  him,  and  I  wish  him  to  have  every  incentive  for  love 
and  devotion  —  though  once  I  wished  to  take  that  from  you,  too, 
Virginia." 

"You  must  not  talk  of  death,"  said  Virginia. 

"It  will  be  no  further  off  for  not  speaking  of  it,"  he  muttered. 

"I  am  sorry  for  the  charge  I  made." 

"I  am  not.  If  you  had  not  made  it  you  would  not  be  here  now. 
When  I  built  this  house,  I  could  still  believe  that  some  day  you 
would  be  its  mistress.  That  was  almost  thirty  years  ago,  and  you 
have  never  entered  it  until  to-night,  to  spend  the  last  hours  of  my 
life  with  me!  I  wish  you  would  say  that  you  forgive  me!" 

"I  do  —  but- 

"But  what  ?"  catching  at  the  word. 

"  How  much  better  it  would  have  been  if  you  had  not  done  the 
thing  you  did." 

"I  don't  know,  I  have  waited  all  my  life  for  a  little  tenderness 
from  you,  and  you  have  never  shown  it  until  to-night.  No,  what 


CHAPTER  FIFTY-THREE  481 

we  do,  fits  into  the  scheme  of  our  existence.  You  would  not  deny  me 
this  moment!" 

"You  have  paid  a  great  price  for  it,"  she  said  pityingly. 

"But  it  is  worth  it,"  he  answered  perversely.  "I  made  my  bargain 
with  fate,  and  I  am  satisfied."  His  glance  wandered  i.bout  the  room, 
but  the  familiar  objects  he  saw  only  vaguely.  The  spell  of  her  pres- 
ence, desired  but  denied  so  long,  made  it  all  seem  strange  and  new. 
Instead  of  the  end,  this  seemed  but  the  beginning. 

"  Perhaps  you  will  come  here  to  live  with  Stephen,"  he  said  after 
a  pause. 

"I  haven't  thought  of  the  future,"  she  answered  him,  and  then 
realized  that  the  future  of  which  they  spoke  was  something  in  which 
he  would  have  no  part.  He  fell  silent  again.  Perhaps  he  was  thinking 
of  this,  too;  a  long  silence,  in  which  he  seemed  to  be  drifting,  slip- 
ping away  into  the  shadows.  Through  half-closed  lids,  he  kept  his 
glance  fixed  upon  her  face,  that  seemed  to  have  taken  on  youth 
and  beauty. 

Perhaps  she  understood  the  change  that  was  coming  to  him;  but 
she  did  not  rise  or  call  the  others.  She  knew  that  he  wished  to  be  alone 
with  her.  She  gazed  long  and  earnestly  at  the  pallid  face.  Her  heart 
welled  with  sorrow  for  him;  yet  she  was  conscious  that  there  was 
something  perverse  and  pagan  in  his  attitude;  in  his  satisfaction 
with  himself  and  with  that  moment. 

He  opened  his  eyes  wide. 

"You  will  not  go  away  —  you  will  not  leave  me ?"  he  whispered. 

"No." 

"You   almost  tempt  me  to  get  well,  Virginia,"  he  murmured 

smilingly. 

She  had  rested  her  hand  on  the  edge  of  the  bed;  now  he  found  it 
with  his  own,  and  his  fingers  closed  about  it. 

"Virginia!" 

"Yes  —  what  is  it  ?"  and  as  she  bent  her  head  to  catch  his  reply 
he  moved,  and  turned  his  face  toward  the  wall;  but  the  sm.le 
lingered  on  his  lips. 


THE  END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FAOUTY 


A    000  1 1 1  053     5 


